


Spring

by serendipityspeaks



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya stark the sea captain, Beyond the Wall - Freeform, Children of the Forest, Dorne, Dothraki Sea, Dragons, Drogon - Freeform, Essos, F/M, Fix-It, Game of Thrones Fix-It, Game of Thrones Spoilers, House Greyjoy, House Manderly - Freeform, House Martell, House Stark, House Targaryen, I didn't have enough to tell a story, I like old ruins, I'm onna booooat, Independent North (ASoIaF), Jon is a warg, Jonerys, Meereen, Naath, Plotting, Post - Game of Thrones (TV), Queen in the North, Red Priests, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Starklings (ASoIaF), Sunspear, The Citadel, The Night's Watch, White Walkers, Wildlings - Freeform, Winterfell, after the war, almost as powerful as Bran, and descriptions of blood, and some gross stuff, but it is GoT, changes in the north, direwolf, game of thrones season 8, game of thrones season 9, got lore, hightower, just FYI, maesters of ice and fire, oily black stone, oldtown, origin of the white walkers, plus I love Dornish fashion, running a kingdom is hard work, seaguard, so I'm bringing them in from the books, so like, the maesters, the magical maester conspirracy, the north - Freeform, the show got rid of so many characters, there's a beheading, they did the sand snakes dirty, this is my theory and I'm sticking to it, three eyed raven cave, tormund - Freeform, what are you expecting lol
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2020-03-09 14:44:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 50,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipityspeaks/pseuds/serendipityspeaks
Summary: But what happens after? How did the clean up go? And what about the massive plot holes that occurred at the end of the series? Herein, we pick up where s8 left off and follow the stories of the remaining Game of Thrones characters.  Hopefully I can fill some gaps in the plot and give some characters a more satisfying ending.  This will work its way through all the POV characters in the style of the novels (most will have several chapters.).  Provided I finish it, it'll be at least novel length and is as large in scope as the show and/or the books.





	1. Bran

**Author's Note:**

> I, like a lot of people, didn't like how D&D handled s8. But instead of going back and re-writing that, I'm adding a post-script to address the parts that I either hated or felt made like zero sense. This takes a lot of lore from the books and blends it with the events of the show to try and fix some of the plot holes and bad writing that plagued season 8 and, to a lesser extent, season 7. It's written in the style of the books, with a Chapter heading that's just the person whose POV we're getting. I will be using every piece of ASoIaF lore out there and all 8 seasons, so you know, spoiler warning for literally everything related. I will continue to leave Young Gryff out, as D&D have, but I may do some-reworking of Dorne. We'll see. It was done a major disservice. And obviously, some of this inside the head stuff I'm just guessing at because GRRM hasn't released the last two novels, so.... *shrug*. Also for the most part, characters that are dead are going to stay dead so I'll have to introduce some different POVs from the books.
> 
> I'll be altering tags/warnings as needed as I go.
> 
> I love comments plz feed me comments. :) If you have questions or I've missed a bit of lore or you like it or whatever...just please don't be a dick.
> 
> Also, if you have a thing for large, intricate fantasy stories and fantasy worlds, consider checking out my OU. The story starts with The Incidental Queen. The only warning I'd give is that the story contains extremely explicit sex (which I haven't included here). However! I do tag it and note it at the top of every chapter so you can decide for yourself if you don't want to read it. You very much can enjoy the story and skip the dirty bits if that's not something you like. All you're going to miss is characterization, I don't think I've put any plot in there.

Bran sat in his chair, beneath the old weirwood in the godswood of the Red Keep.  The smokeberry vines had been cleared from the tree, letting it breathe again. He didn’t need to be here, but it helped him think more clearly.  He’d been spending a lot of time here since taking up the mantle of leader. Although he was young, time always seemed to be short, and there was so much to do.  He allowed his gaze to roam to the newly-built gates nearby. Sounds of work came from below, and to him, it was good. Right now, though, the progress on his home wasn’t his concern.  

He’d told the small council that he’d tried to find Drogon, and he hadn’t entirely been lying.  He didn’t know where Drogon currently was, but it wouldn’t take much effort to find him. He tipped his head back, letting his spirit soar into a flock of nearby ravens.  He joined them often, and they accepted him without argument. He took flight, heading east. It was the only thing he really knew about where Drogon might have gone. 

He flew out past the Blackwater, noting the progress of rebuilding below him.  Euron’s ships were almost cleared away, and a path had developed through the wreckage to easily let the merchants and travellers through to what was left of King’s Landing.  If he could still mourn, he would have mourned the lives lost. It had been necessary for his ascent, but it was a waste. So much was wasted. 

He turned from the city and towards Dragonstone.  There, he left the ravens and found a school of fish.  Easier to make the long journey in a school of fish. Soon, he wouldn’t need to jump from animal to animal to extend his senses, but for now, Essos was too far for him to get there directly.  He’d sent a ship though, and it would be remedied. He directed the school east until he got to warmer waters, where he slid into a pod of dolphins. They were smarter and it took a little more effort to make them accept him, but they eventually relented while being distracted by feeding.  

He let them finish eating, needing them to have the energy for their long journey, and then he turned east again.  Then south, through the Stepstones and the Broken Arm of Dorne, and out into the open water. Dolphins were a good choice for this journey, the could go far and they could move quickly.  And they were complex enough that he needed fewer of them to house himself. Rather than a murder of crows, a small pod was enough. 

It took time, as it always did.  He went from pod to pod until he finally arrived at the Bay of Dragons.  No Drogon here, but he changed to a horse in Mereen and heard humans talking about the beast that had flown overhead days earlier.  They had barely had time to fix the pyramid, and they were glad that it hadn’t stopped. Strange to see it without its siblings, though.  And where was the queen? Would she return? 

He turned from human gossip back to the trail.  Now that he knew Drogon had passed through here he knew he was correct in his suppositions about the dragon.  He found a riderless horse and turned north, into the great grass sea where the Dothraki used to hold sway. He didn’t care much for their people, they’d find their way again.  They weren’t his concern. So he ran as far as he dared into the sea, stopping to eat and drink along the way. He wasn’t likely to find anything else out here, so he needed to be careful.  He needed to live. 

Finally, he felt it.  The great, burning mind on the edge of his awareness.  The mind he’d felt once before. Of course, he knew this would come to pass.  This need would arise. So he took hold of that mind and slid into Drogon’s mind.  A mount once ridden was easily ridden again, and this time Drogon didn’t fight him.  Not like he had before, when the dead loomed and his queen was on his back. They’d hurt him then, the dead.  But he flew into the sky with his brother and shook them off. Being in Drogon’s mind was different than other animals.  Drogon was too fierce to run and hide like Hodor had, and too smart to be fully subsumed. 

He snorted, raising his head and looking around.  There was a horse nearby, and his stomach rumbled.  Mother would want him to eat. He started to shift, to take off, and something else caught his attention.  Another smell. Horses, yes, but also...men. Humans were coming. He stayed to guard his mother. From what, he did not know, but he was not ready for another rider yet with her so nearby.  So he waited in his nest in the Great Grass sea, and looked for the men. 

They came out of the grass, on fire but not burning, men but not men.  They stood far back, not threatening. They’d known he was here. One dismounted and cautiously walked closer.  He screamed at them, warning them not to threaten his mother. He’d failed once, and he would not fail again. But they were burning and not burning and they were like him, they were fire.  Like calls to like and his mother had burned too. So had the other, the one from the cold. Burned and not burned. His brother’s rider. But these men, they all looked the same. They all wore their burning on the outside, wore clothes the color of his own wings.  

The human flinched, but did not back away.  He got closer, sniffling at them. They smelled of fire and warmth and all that was him.  So he let them pass, staying nearby. The man spoke to him, “We are sorry, young one. We know what they did to your mother.” 

He snorted and lifted his wing, showing them where he was hiding his mother.  More came close, and he looked at them for the sharp things some men liked to throw at him.  They held none. No bits of steel in their hands, either. He rattled his frills, but he let them pass, too.  They stepped close to his mother, and he caught bits of their man words. The other in his mind knew what they meant.  

“She has not started to decay,” one man said, looking at his mother.  

“Yes, curious,” answered a woman, “It will make the job of our lord easier.”  

“It will.  Let us begin,” the other men stepped forward, surrounding his mother.  They started to chant man words that neither Drogon nor the other understood.  But he watched and they chanted and chanted. What good would man-words do? Would they help his mother? He didn’t know them and now he was confused.  He snorted, agitation and hunger making him jumpy. He shouldn’t have let them near his mother, he shouldn’t have let them say the man-words. They were food, that’s all.  

He hissed and got to his feat, screaming and thumping the ground with his wings.  But the men did not stop making the man words, and Drogon got distracted. Burning but not burning came from the chanting humans and surrounded his mother, disappearing into her.  She was burning but not burning now, just like before, just like his brother’s rider. He stopped stomping and making noise, and the men who’d been around his mother slowly backed off towards the horses that brought them.  One stayed near his mother. Drogon watched, steaming trickling from between his teeth. 

Then he looked down.  Mother opened her eyes.  


	2. Yara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yara Greyjoy makes her way home. An end to war isn't an end to problems, and she finds no shortage of them waiting for her on Pyke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For timeline notes: I'm just going with "Yara travels overland" because going from King's landing to Pyke takes forever, they're on opposite sides of Westeros. Obviously there's going to be some time jumping I'm going to have to do, but I'm hoping to avoid D&D's sort of like "everyone is where they need to be immediately" way of handling things. 
> 
> Sorry if things seem a little slow to begin with, there's just a certain amount of setup necessary. I have plans, I promise.

Home.  Finally, home.  The air smelled of salt and fish, and seagulls cawed and danced overhead.  It was raining, the same drizzle that seemed continuous on her damp islands, and fog hid Pyke from view.  She listened to the clomp of boots on the docks, and the shouting of people, and the sounds life in Lordsport continuing.  This was hers, now. Kingsmoot or not, she’d earned the Iron Islands with her blood and sweat. Her small boat bumped into the stone wall of the dock, and she grabbed the ring, threading the boat’s rope through it to hold it in place.  She hauled herself up onto the steps, climbed them, and stood on the edge of the wall. 

“See you when I see you,” she said to the crew that was in the small boat with her, grabbing the travel sack they held up to her, “Don’t go far.”  

“You know where we’ll be,” answered Qarl, her first mate.  She nodded and turned, walking off to find a horse to take her up to Pyke.  No one had come to meet her because she hadn’t sent word that she’d be arriving.  She disliked it when people made a fuss, doing things for her that she was perfectly able to do for herself.  

She found a horse easily and started towards Pyke.  Soon, the sad, grey stones poked through the swirling mist.  It wasn’t like other castles. It lacked many of the comforts preferred by other nobles.  And now, in winter, it was cold as a well as damp. To her, though, it fit like a well-worn boot.  She liked that she could always hear and smell the sea, and the wind whistling through its halls and between the towards was a kind of music.  It was older than anyone knew, the names of its builders lost to time, and the age comforted her as well as all the rest. She had roots, here.  Tension she carried in her chest unwound just a fraction. 

She rode all the way up the switch-backed path to the gatehouse on the headlands.  They let her in, and this is where she left the horse. Horses couldn’t cross the tall, arched bridge that connected the headlands to the Bloody Keep, so they were left here behind the curtain wall with the rest of the livestock.  The gate thumped closed behind her, and she started the walk towards the castle. 

Her goal was the Kitchen Keep, and her rumbling stomach reminded her that she hadn’t eaten for hours.  But to get to the Kitchen Keep, she had to pass through the Bloody Keep and the Great Keep. On her way through the Great Keep, she changed her mind and turned from her intended path.  Instead, she walked through the Smoky Hall towards the twisting hunk of oily black stone that was the Seastone Chair. 

It should have been hers from the first.  How many lives could have been saved if Euron had lost the Kingsmoot? His ambitions, her father’s ambitions, cost them everything.  They were a generation of overly ambitious men with no notion about what comes after. What would Euron have done after he’d married Cersei, had either of them survived the dragon queen? Would he have come home and peacefully sat his ass on this kraken? Doubtful.  Now, she saw, only his driftwood crown remained, looking a little forlorn on the kraken’s lap. 

_ That shouldn’t be there _ , she thought to herself, frowning and picking up the crown from the seat nestled in the kraken’s tentacles.  It was surprisingly heavy for something composed of driftwood. Such a small thing to have caused so much trouble.  And, yet...she should have had one, too. Dany had promised her, but Dany was dead. So now they were still beholden to the rest of the six kingdoms.   _ Six _ kingdoms, because the north had declared its independence and King Bran had allowed it.  It put a bitter taste in her mouth, but not so bitter as the taste of blood. She was lucky there were even people alive on her islands, people to crew her ships.  She shook her head, and turned from the throne, resuming her walk to the Kitchen Keep. 

She made one more stop on her way.  On the bridge between the two keeps, she took Euron’s crown and held it, pushing hard on the sides until the bent and broke, the wood crackling as it splintered.  She broke it into smaller and smaller pieces, each a shard for something she’d lost. For her father, for her uncles, for every man who’d had to die to take back the islands from Euron.  For her brothers, slain during her father’s rebellion by Robert Baratheon’s men. For her crew and her ships and all the Ironborn who’d had to break the drowned god’s commandments about spilling the blood of other Ironborn.  And for Theon. Always, for Theon. The tortured, imperfect man who’d given his life in defense of Bran the Broken. For the baby brother who’d barely gotten to live. 

She tossed the pieces into the sea.  

 

***

“What do you mean, there’s no goats? There’s  _ always _ goats,” Yara directed her question at the cook, who was offering only hardtack, an apologetic look on her face.  

“And no fish, and no onions.  There’s very little, my lady. After, well,” the woman’s voice trailed off and she shrugged apologetically.  Yara pinched the bridge of her nose with her fingers and sighed. 

“Fine.  Get me some salted hardtack.  Is there any cheese?” 

“Some.”  

“Good.  Get me that, too.  Who is acting as steward?” 

“Helya survived, my lady.”  

“Send her and maester Wendamyr up to my fath--,” wait, no, that wasn’t right, “to my solar.”  

“Yes miss.  A thrall will be up soon.” 

“Good,” she grunted, leaving the room.  She headed to the furthest island, the path taking her across the rope bridge where her father had fallen during a storm, “Fallen.  Right.” 

Despite that, she thought very little of crossing the dangerous, swaying bridge.  She’d been doing it since she was a child. That tower, with its salted white base, lichen-covered walls, and soot-covered crown, was as familiar to her as her own rooms.  She’d spent many hours with her father there. Although he, being miserly and bitter, only used a single brazier to warm it. She preferred something a little more substantial.  Fortunately, she saw as she entered, they’d sent a servant ahead to light the fireplace and several braziers. Dumping her travel sack onto the nearest chair, she crossed to the desk.  She’d left it quickly to go to king’s landing, having barely had time to begin sorting through the accounts after taking the islands back from Euron. . 

It was a short time before Helya and Wendamyr arrived, along with the food.  She munched on a piece of hardtack and cheese, and gestured for the two of them to sit, “How bad is it?” 

They exchanged a look, and Helya went first, “Plainly put, my lady, the castle doesn’t have enough provisions to survive the winter.  Euron’s men ate too much, and more was destroyed in the fighting.” 

“The rest of the Iron Islands aren’t faring much better, and without a leader--” 

“We have a leader,” she interrupted, “I am our leader.” 

He brushed past her statement, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, “The reavers haven’t been raiding due to the war, and no new provisions have come in for months.”  

_ We do not sow _ , she thought to herself, “And the people?”

“They are fine, for now.  Many have not yet realized how dire our position,” the Maester answered.  

“That is a recipe for disaster.” 

“As you say.  Once the food runs out,” he trailed off.  She knew what he was implying. The Iron Islanders were reavers.  They’d soon take to the sea again under the assumption that they could steal their food.  Yara knew better, though. She’d seen the damage done by the war. This winter would be hard on all of them, “Perhaps if we had a Lord Reaper, we could direct that energy in a more constructive way.”  

She eyed him.  He continued to deny that she was the Lady Reaper, that the islands were hers.  Helya, for her part, looked like she thought Wendamyr was an idiot for saying what he was saying.  And, yet...Euron brought back the tradition of the Kingsmoot. Mayhap she could give Wendamyr enough rope to hang himself.  She leaned back in her chair and eyed him, “And who would you suggest, Wendamyr? I am the last living Greyjoy.” 

“Perhaps if you were to marry? There are several ship captains who--” 

“No.  If I marry it will be in my own time and my own decision.  Never bring it up again,” her tone could have frosted the glass.  She would produce heirs, she did not intend to let her house die, but she would choose the man.  One who didn’t mind being powerless and sharing his wife with others. 

“Those same ship captains could be Lord Reaper, if we held a Kingsmoot?,” he sounded a hair less certain.  She had no doubt that once he was gone from her sight he’d reassure himself as to his rightness concerning her ability to rule, and come back to argue.  He’d been doing it for weeks, “Your gods say that only one chosen can sit the Seastone Chair, and never a woman.” 

“And yet here we are,” she abruptly sat up, “You want to hold another Kingsmoot, then? Have you found my uncle?” 

Despite Euron’s assertion aboard his ship that they were the last living Greyjoys, There had been several people who had hosted her uncle since the battle.  However, direct contact with him proved elusive. He moved around the Iron Islands often, “I received a raven this morning from Ten Towers. He seems to be staying there for a time.” 

“Ten Towers? Really? You should have led with that,” Ten Towers contained more books and scrolls than anywhere else on the Iron Islands.  Damphair may always have the drowned god’s hand up his arse, but he wasn’t stupid. Ten Towers was the home of her uncle Roderik. They’d always been close, and Roderik had helped her reclaim the islands from Euron.  What was Aeron playing at?, “Go. I have much to work out with Helya.” 

“As you say,” the Maester rose and scurried off, probably to warn Aeron that she’d be approaching again.  

“That one is trouble,” Helya observed.  

“Aye, he is.  A necessary bit of trouble, given that we have no one else to serve as healer.”  

“Haven’t you got a fancy friend at the citadel now? Who might could send you a better maester?” 

“I doubt it.  Friend would be too strong a word.  No, I think I’ll let him drown himself in his own net instead.  Now, where were we?,” they turned back to an accounting of the household’s resources.  It would probably be a long winter. 


	3. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has returned to the north and settled into running her kingdom. But her family is gone, and so are all her friends. She's a lonely queen in a cold kingdom. A lone wolf, left to die or survive on her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've started to blend in things I think of as grey canon - things that are stated in the books, but not specifically confirmed or denied in the show. I'm also starting to pull in side characters from the books because there simply weren't enough people left alive at the end of the show to populate a world as large as Westeros. So rather than spending a ton of time coming up with a million little side characters, I'm drawing in some characters left out of the TV show.

Fire crackled in the fireplace behind her, adding to the warmth of the water running through the walls of Winterfell.  Her desk was covered in scrolls and papers, maps and petitions, and all the other brik-a-brak that came with ruling. But it was sorted into orderly piles so that she wouldn’t be driven mad by the incessant paperwork.  She was of the opinion that it should help her, not hinder her. Gods knew she could use the help. 

She sighed and leaned back in her chair.  The Umber and Bolton lands had no lords, and all their remaining residents were down in the winter town outside of her walls.  They, and the rest of the living north. She hoped for a quick winter, because the army had eaten so much of her food stores, and the dead had destroyed even more.  She was in the process of setting up trade routes and securing the southern border, and a hundred other things that demanded her attention. 

And she was alone.  Not a day went by when she didn’t consider sending for Jon to have him come visit her.  With Arya off gods knew where and Bran down in King’s Landing, she was short on friends.  There were advisors and hangers-on, of course, and she could always visit Robyn Arryn, but none of those options were what she really needed: a friend she could trust.  Even Brienne stayed in the south. Everyone else, well, they hadn’t made it through the long night. And on top of that loomed the question she was asked by her advisors every day: what of a consort? None dared mention the word king, no, that wasn’t what they seemed to want.  But the continuation of the Starks seemed to be important to everyone and, if she was being honest, she wouldn’t mind having a partner to help take some of the load. 

She looked up at the candle on the corner of her desk, the one that marked time in hours carved on the side.  It was late, and none of these problems were going to be solved tonight, “Wylla!” 

Her lady-in-waiting emerged after a moment.  The girl had been at Winterfell for a long time; betrothed against her will to one of the Freys after the red wedding.  She’d somehow survived all that had happened since. The two of them were of an age, and of a similar bent. Importantly, Wylla was also a Manderly, and the Manderlys were among the houses most loyal to the Starks.  Tall and willowy, she had long blonde hair that she’d recently re-taken to dying a bright, garish green. People sometimes made fun of the girl for it, but secretly Sansa admired her sartorial boldness. She liked having that small bit of whimsy in a life that had become so serious.  It reminded her of a time when she’d been younger and been more of a dreamer. 

“Yes, your grace?,” she asked, her high, clear voice carrying easily through the quiet room.  

“It’s time for me to sleep,” Sansa answered, standing.  Tired. She was always so tired. Sleep wouldn’t alleviate that, but she needed it anyway.  

“I thought you might be ready for bad soon,” she replied, coming over and gently lifting the direwolf crown off Sansa’s head and laying it on its stand.  

“It seems to come later every night.  Thank you for staying awake with me,” she got up and moved into the open so that Wylla could help her undress.  Undressing was her favorite part of the day, because removing the tight leather bodices she’d taken to wearing always felt so good.  It wasn’t that they were uncomfortable, not exactly, it’s just that they were restrictive. It always felt good to be free. 

“It’s no burden,” Wylla started removing Sansa’s jewelry and outerwear.  The process of changing didn’t take very long these days, as the two of them had grown comfortable in their routine.  They worked in comfortable silence, and soon Sansa was in her sleeping gown, sitting on a bench while Wylla brushed the knots out of her hair and wove it into a loose braid.  Engaged in her nighttime routine, Sansa was soon covering her jaw-cracking yawns with her hand while Wylla did the same. 

When Wylla was finished, Sansa stood and walked to her bed after Wylla pulled back the heavy covers.  She got in and snuggled down under the warm blankets. She watched as Wylla doused the candles and banked the fire.  The girl moved quickly and efficiently, used to the task, her long green braid swinging down as she worked. 

“Wylla.  Why do you dye your hair green?,” Sansa asked as Wylla was finishing her tasks.  The girl smiled at her, moving towards the door between their adjoined rooms. 

“I am a Manderly.  I wear it to remind people who and what I am.  Mermaids are beautiful, but men should be cautious of us.” 

That made Sansa smile back, “Yes.  Men should be cautious of you.” 

“They always seem to underestimate us, don’t they?” 

“Yes.  Yes, they do.”  

“Goodnight, your grace.” 

“Goodnight, Wylla,” Sansa quickly fell into a deep sleep, then into a dream.  She’d had dreams like this as a child, when Lady had been alive, and they’d stopped on her death.  Recently, they’d started again. Tonight was no different. 

She ran through the cold, clear night, the moon calling to her.  Her pack was behind her, well-fed and robust. The metallic tang of a recent kill was bright in her mouth, and joy sang through her as she ran through the snows.  Her pack had whelped again at the end of the fall, and grown in the process. Her descendants covered the riverlands, but that wasn’t where she was right now. There were fewer men here, and it was comfortably colder.  The south was too hot for her. Here, she could feel the cold winter air streaming through her fur as she ran. Her great strides ate the distance. North, she ran, ever north. 

Then she caught the scent of something.  Something familiar. Something that reminded her of long ago, of her brothers and her sister.  She went towards the smell, curious. It was different, there was the smell of burning and death, and many more men than before.  But under that there was the smell of rich earth, horses, the working of man-claws, stone, and trees. And there, as she got closer, she smelled another smell.  One of people who were familiar. The people who she’d lived with once, who had fed her. It wasn’t her person, but one of the others. She was curious, and she went closer.  Her pack stayed behind in the nearby woods, not used to so many men. She was, though. She’d grown from a pup here. 

The men were asleep, and so she ignored them, creeping silently among their homes towards the open gates of where she’d lived so long ago.  There were lights there, and the smell of horses was stronger. So was the smell of the people she’d known. One of her brothers had been here, but it was faint, so he was long-gone.  Her person had been there, too, but it was faint as well. But the smell of one of her human pack was bright and strong. She padded through open gates, and everything returned in a rush.  It was all familiar to her, the places she’d run and played when she was young. The big, red tree near the lake - frozen now, but spring would come eventually. 

She smelled him before she saw or heard him, and she whipped around, growling.  A man, one she didn’t know, he stood with a torch in his hand. Fear filled her nostrils, and he started shouting in man-speak.  Another came and they had fire, too. She wanted to run, she thought she should run. She shouldn’t have come to this place of iron and fire, but its familiarity was a lure for her.  She’d been warm and happy here. The men were shouting and she was growling and she wanted to run. 

_ Stay _ , begged the other,  _ Please stay.   _

Sansa woke up, sitting straight up in bed.  Outside she heard shouting coming from the direction of the godswood.  She tossed back the covers and grabbed her warmest dressing gown, yanking it on.  She shoved her feet into the nearest pair of boots, and left, running from the room and down the stairs.  She ran through the halls of her home, towards the godswood, hoping beyond any reason that her dream was true.  The noise from outside gave her reason to believe, but it was just a dream, wasn’t it? 

When she got to the godswood she slowed.  There was a circle of guards there, some she recognized as frequently being on night patrol.  They had torches, and they sounded panicked. Under their voices she heard...growling. Yes, that was definitely growling.  Then, a loud bark. 

“Move!,” her voice cracked like a whip through the cold, clear night.  The men turned and acknowledged her, but they were unwilling to expose their queen to danger, and they did not part for her.  She drew herself up, letting the mantle of queen settle around her. She was not a frantic girl run into the snow in her night clothes, she was the mistress of this castle and they would do what she said, “I said, move.” 

They nodded, parting for her.  She walked through them and finally was able to see what was frightening them.  There, standing near the weirwood, was a huge direwolf. She was light grey, with darker grey sable on her back and in a streak down her face.  Glowing, intelligent eyes stared out at her from the night, and she smiled. 

“Nymeria,” she moved closer and crouched down so that she was at the wolf’s level, smiling.  Nymeria wasn’t lady, but she was family. Sansa would accept her and love her as she did Arya.  She led out her knuckles to the big wolf. Tentatively, Nymeria stepped close enough to sniff them.  Her breath was warm on Sansa’s hand. She laughed when the animal licked her knuckles and came a little closer.  She reached out and scratched her behind the ears, sinking her fingers into the soft, thick fur, “I missed you, sister.  Are you alone? Do you have a pack?” 

Nymeria just whined, but Sansa had seen this in her dream.  She knew there was a pack out there in the Wolfswood. So many wolves in the Wolfswood.  She liked the sound of that. She finished petting Nymeria and stood, turning to her guards, “This is Nymeria, and she is Arya’s direwolf.  That means she is family, and you will allow her to come and go as she pleases. She has a pack out there in the Wolfswood, and you will leave them alone, too.”  

“But, your grace, what if she hurts someone?,” asked one of the more frightened-looking men standing nearby.  

“She will not.  Feed them, if they want it, but they will likely find their own food out in the wild.  The pack must keep to the Wolfswood, but Nymeria will go where she wants,” Nymeria came to her side, sticking her face into Sansa’s hand, and Sansa scratched behind her ears again.  It was good to have a sister come home. 


	4. Arianne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prince of Dorne has stolen Sunspear and the ruling of Dorne from the rightful heir of Doran Martell: Arianne Martell, his eldest surviving true-born child. Together with the remaining Sand Snakes, she plots to take back her home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continuity note: Because Darkstar, Arienne, and young Gryff were all excluded from the show (as were the younger sand snakes), and Myrcella & Tristayne's plot lines very explicit in the show, I am also leaving out the event from the books where Arianne attempts to crown Myrcella. Ergo, the relationship between Darkstar and Arianne has not happened and the Sand Snakes aren't imprisoned. I'm inserting her as if she was out of Dorne during the events of the show, as were all the characters in this chapter. This is my attempt to rescue some of the intricate and interesting Dorne plot from the hackneyed job the showrunners did with it.

“The prince of Dorne,” she snarled, hurling a golden vessel against the wall.  It hit with a loud clatter, chipping the tile. Another, more breakable, vessel followed, shattering, “I am my father’s oldest living heir! I am princess!” 

“You have a strong arm,” Dorea observed, “You should have been taught to wield weapons as my sisters were.”  

Arianne dropped the next object in her hand, and sighed loudly, heavily falling into a chair next to her cousin.  News did not travel fast when ravens didn’t fly, and she’d been far from Sunspear after the sack of King’s Landing.  Her father’s plots had left her out of the action, and she hated being left out of the action. Now there was a pretender walking her halls.  She’d gathered all but one of the remaining Sand Snakes around her, initially to plan the future of House Martell. Now, she was glad of their presence.  She’d need their help to rally the other houses and get her home back. Elia, Obella, Dorea, and Loreza were equally as angry at the overturning of their uncle’s legacy and the murder of their mother.  All of them still nursed anger at the death of Oberyn. Arianne had simply chosen to not assign blame for her father’s death at the hands of their mother to them. They’d had no influence on her actions, and the older Sand Snakes were all dead.  There was no one left to blame for that. 

“We all want vengeance for the death of our mother, Arianne.  We are with you, but we must do this carefully. Methodically,” Loreza, the the youngest of them at 12, was the most thoughtful and methodical.  She’d grown up largely away from the influence of Oberyn, Ellaria, and the elder Sand Snakes, and had a temperament much closer to Doran’s, “Which houses suffered least in the wars?” 

“Our ships were largely destroyed by the Iron Fleet, and they had many of our soldiers.  All of the ones Ellaria promised to Queen Daenerys,” Arianne stood again, pacing while she thought out loud, “But that was the bulk of the Martell army.  The Daynes had a substantial force as well. The rest sent only tokens.” 

“We can call the banners, visit some of the houses and rally them to our cause, and march on our home.  We can take Sunspear from them,” Ever ready for a battle, it was Obella who made the suggestion. The others were quick to agree.  

But it rang hollow to Arianne.  Dorne didn’t suffer from the effects of winter the same as the rest of the kingdoms, but it suffered all the same.  Their lack of good farmland meant they imported food often, and importing it from the northern kingdoms meant fewer tariffs than importing it from Tyrosh or Lys.  It meant avoiding the expense of the pirates in the Stepstones, as well. All of that made for cheaper food. Cheaper food led to well-fed people, and well-fed people were happier.  It was a chain of logic that the rest of the seven - no, six - kingdoms often seemed to forget. Arianne didn’t, though. 

_ If I am to rule Dorne, I must learn from the mistakes of my past _ , she thought to herself.  She’d impetuously gotten in her father’s way, once, thinking him old, slow, and stupid.  He’d revealed a larger plan to her, and she’d learned that things weren’t always what they seemed.  She’d also learned that arms weren’t the only way to accomplish a goal. So she listened to her cousins bicker over troop numbers and the loyalty of different houses while she formulated another course of action in the back of her mind.  They concluded that Hellholt and the Yronwoods would be most likely to support our cause. They were not wrong in this; Ellia was a bastard of Hellholt and Doran had fostered with the Yronwoods for years. 

“And of course the Manwoodys,” Elia observed, somewhat sarcastically.  It was Kingsgrave that hosted them, far from the reach of Sunspear. If the fool pretender had even thought to look for them.  This was for the better; here they were close to the prince’s pass and the rest of Westeros. 

“We will not call the banners,” Arianne finally joined the conversation, “I think instead...I will simply ignore him.”  

All four of her cousins started to chatter at once, voicing protests until Arienne raised her hand, “He has returned to Sunspear, and there he stays.  And yet, Tywin Lannister created a position on the small council for my father and it remains empty. No word has come that it was eliminated, and the pretender’s inclusion in the council to choose the king shows that Dorne is still leashed to the rest of the kingdoms - no matter what the dragon queen promised Ellaria and your sisters.”  

“I see,” said Loreza, “You will claim your place on the small council.” 

“Yes.  I’ll collect retainers from the houses most likely to be friendly to us, and take them with me to King’s Landing.  Perhaps the fire has killed some of the vipers in that pit, but I will still need protection.” 

Arianne shrugged, “We are vipers, too.  We have spent long enough forgetting that.”  

“But what good will it do to be on the small council?,” Dorea was the least politically adept of them all.  She preferred it when people pointed her towards things and told her to smash them. 

“It raises Arianne in legitimacy over the supposed prince of Dorne,” explained Elia, “The rest of Westeros is well aware that Dorne allows women to inherit as well as men.  The North has a queen now, too, so they should be well-familiar with the practice.” 

“Women, women everywhere, and not a man to care,” Obella giggled in a way that sounded almost maniacal, and Arianne rolled her eyes.  

“Taking members of the remaining houses will show them favor, so I must choose them carefully,” Arianne was thinking aloud again, “But the houses you suggested are good ones.  We must not neglect the Daynes, either.” 

“Which ones?,” asked Loreza.  

“Either.  Both,” Arianne shrugged, “I’ve a mind to take Darkstar.”  

“I’m not sure that’s wise,” the caution was clear in Loreza’s voice.  Her maturity was eerie, acting so much older than her twelve years, “Even I have heard the tales of him.  He is cruel.” 

“And too ambitious by half,” Obella agreed.  

“Ah, but he is ever so pretty, and the scenery between here and King’s Landing will not be enough to keep me entertained.  And can you imagine a man like that at court? I can. Oberyn wasn’t safe there, and Darkstar is twice the viper he was. I’ll have need of his venom,” she walked to the side board and poured herself a glass of Summerwine, draining several mouthfuls before sitting with her cousins again, “Let us make a list.  Lord Dagos has many ravens, and I intend to use them.” 


	5. Grey Worm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having since retired to Naath, Grey Worm's life has settled into an even keel. That is, until he receives a surprise visit from an old friend.

“Torgo Nudho!,” a child’s voice was outside his hut.  They sounded frantic but, then, children always sounded frantic to him, “Torgo Nudho! Come see!” 

“I’m coming,” he shouted back, leaning the broom he was using against the wall.  He stepped into the bright sunshine. His armor was stowed in a trunk near his bed, unused since he’d removed it on arrival.  Instead he’d adopted the dress of the Naath, his clothing loose and flowing to allow him to stay cool. He’d learned their language quickly enough; It wasn’t so hard, it was close to Valyrian.  

His home was a hut at the edge of the forest, near the long stretch of white-sand beach that bordered the ocean.  It was a lovely color here, a turquoise that he’d never seen before. He liked to row out and fish in the lagoon created by the hook shape of the island’s southern coast.  He could more easily keep an eye out for any who might threaten Missandei’s people. He protected them now, as he once had protected his queen. His men initially had followed him to the island, but some of them started to sicken and die from a fever.  The locals called it butterfly fever. It did not touch them, but it seemed to fell all who weren’t from Naath. Except him. He didn’t know why, but he kept Missandei close to his heart and honored her memory, and he thought that it was enough to protect him.  She was his talisman, and still his guiding star. All he did, he did for her people and their small paradise. As a result, the tension in his jaw had eased over the weeks. He’d grown darker from the sun, and peace had found some home in his heart. His men left after they started to fall ill, scattering to gods knew where.  The Dothraki left too, refusing to do more than leave the ship to take on water and supplies. They all knew of the curse of Naath. He hoped all of them had found some of the same peace he had. 

He walked out, not bothering to put on shoes.  He found the children standing in a circle on the sand, near where the flowers of the forest started.  He joined them, “What have you found?” 

A small girl he knew as Saathi grinned up at him.  Her smile was bright and gap-toothed, teeth white against her dark brown skin, “The babies have come.  See?” 

She opened her hands, and inside them she held a few small caterpillars.  They were brightly colored, fat and squirming in her hands, leaf-green with pink and orange stripes that matched some of the flowers in the area.  Strange, as they grew to be black and white butterflies, “Ah, your protectors.” 

“Yes,” she agreed, nodding vigorously, “These will grow and make outsiders sick.”  

“They are so fat and round!,” he pretended to be mystified, for the amusement of the kids.  

“It’s because they eat so many leaves!,” a boy named Rithin shouted, his enthusiasm plain, “My mommy says they eat their vegetables so they can grow into big, strong protectors.” 

“It is known,” Grey Worm agreed, “So you must be like the caterpillar, and grow big and strong.”  

“And wise!,” added another of the children.  The rest nodded sagely, as if they were already grown.  The Naath did not fight, they were peaceful, as Missandei had been.  His heart ached at her final word, so violent. So different than who she was.  

“Yes, and wise.  Who would like to learn some more Valyrian today?,” he’d been teaching them the language.  They proved especially adept at it, as had the adults. Some of the adults, like Missandei, had already known Valyrian and one or two other languages.  It was another talent of their people. Sharing language with them made him feel closer to her, so he taught them what he knew. 

“We already know lots of Valyrian, Torgo Nudho,” scolded Saathi.  She was the eldest, six precocious years old, and often spoke for the group, “Teach us more Westerosi.  We’ve just begun those lessons.” 

“I see.  Well, ok.  Come to my hut and let’s get settled.” 

“Can we bring the protectors?,” Rithin asked.  

“Of course, how else will we be safe?,” he answered.  They cheered, and ran towards the other side of his home, where the circle of logs and grass was set up for their use.  He followed at a slower pace, enjoying the feel of the warm sun on his skin, the smell of the ocean salt, and the sweet sound of birds from the forest.  

He’d just gotten them settled when he heard it.  The scream. He knew that scream, and it sent cold chills racing down his spine.  The kids just looked confused, but they sense his immediate change in attitude. 

“Grey Worm...?,” the hesitation was clear in Saathi’s voice.  

“Children, there is a visitor coming for me, but it isn’t safe for you.  Run home and stay there, make sure your parents stay up in the mountains too,” he didn’t know why Drogon was coming to Naath, but without his rider he would likely be dangerous.  

“O--ok,” Saathi said.  It was a sign of their fear that none of them argued.  

“And don’t forget to put the babies back,” he added.  They could do that once they were already in the forest.  They all nodded, and scattered into the jungle. He retrieved his spear from his hut.  It would do little good against the dragon, but it comforted him. He walked to the edge of the water and waited.  

It wasn’t long before he spotted Drogon.  The dragon was even bigger now than he’d been in King’s Landing.  His queen had once told him that dragons never stopped growing. She told him of the great black and red dragon of her ancestors, Balereon the Black Dread.  That dragon had been large enough to swallow an aurochs whole with little difficulty. Given the size of Drogon, Grey Worm had no doubt as to the truth of the story. 

The shadow passed over him as the dragon circled and then started to descend.  He held of a hand to shield his eyes, squinting. It looked as if Drogon had a rider, but that couldn’t be true.  The only person who had even any chance of claiming the dragon was the traitor, Jon Snow. The bastard was banished to the wall, so it could not be him upon Drogon’s back, but there was definitely a lump there between the shoulderblades.  An uneasy feeling started to gather in the pit of his stomach. 

It seemed to take years for the dragon to make its way down to a place nearby on the beach, and he finally could see who the rider was.  He watched her scramble down from its back, and had the children not also heard the dragon’s cry, he would think himself hallucinating. There, looking tiny next to Drogon’s bulk, was Daenerys.  He watched in a stupor as she walked across the sands to him, a happy smile on her face. She took his hands in hers and squeezed. 

“Torgo Nudho,” her voice was something he’d never thought to hear again.  He returned her squeeze of his hands, and then let go. She looked different to him, somehow.  Her silver hair shined in the sun, still long and intricately braided. Her skin was still the same pale, unmarked shade, and her eyes were still the same otherworldly violet.  But she looked lighter of spirit, and her dress was more what it had been when she was younger. Gone was the three-headed dragon brooch and chain that she’d worn before the confrontation with the Night King.  In its place was a travel bag that was slung over her shoulder and around her body. She wore the light, airy clothing she’d worn when he first knew her - a long, fluttering silken tunic over leather pants like those the Dothraki wore.  

“My queen,” he replied out of habit, “How?” 

“I was found in the Dothraki sea by the red priests and priestesses.  They returned me from...wherever I was. They have undone what Jon Snow’s betrayal wrought,” the hardness in her voice at the last was familiar to him.  Her anger was plain, but not directed at him, “They took me to Asshai, and I have learned much.” 

He was at a loss as to what to do or how to act, so he resorted to politeness, “Please, come inside and I will make you some tea.”  

She smiled again, easier than he’d seen her smile during the last weeks of her life, “I’d like that.”  

A few minutes later they were seated together at the small table in his kitchen, a plate of fruit between them, and glasses of cooled tea in their hands.  There was so much he wished to ask her, but his mind only settled on one thing. He looked at her so he’d see her reaction plainly, “Did you see her? Was Missandei there?” 

She looked down, the sadness clear, “I remember nothing but blackness.  She could be there, she could not. Either there is nothing after death, or I don’t remember it.  I’m sorry, I know that’s not what you wanted.” 

“It would be unfair of me to expect more.  I am glad you’re no longer dead.” 

“As am I,” she took a few sips of tea, obviously thoughtful, “Tell me what transpired after I was betrayed.”  

“Drogon destroyed the Iron Throne, but the broken boy, Bran.  He rules your kingdoms now. His sister stays in the north, and they are their own country.  Jon Snow was banished to the wall for what he did to you.” 

“He ended where he began, then,” she observed, “What of my people?”  

“Westeros rebuilds,” he shrugged; they were not his concern, “I am the only one on Naath.  The Dothraki return to their sea, and the other Unsullied have scattered. Some are on nearby islands so they can be close without subjecting themselves to the butterfly fever.” 

“Butterfly fever?” 

“The butterflies make outsiders sick.  It is how the god of the Naath protects them,” he didn’t add that the god and the butterflies had been asleep on the day Missandei was taken, “I know nothing of Mereen and the rest of Essos, but I have seen no ships flying the slavers’ flags and none have come to try and disturb the Naath.”  

“One lasting victory, at least,” there was a depth of sadness to her there that he could not place.  He wasn’t a king or a queen, and he’d never know what that burden felt like to carry. He knew loss, though, and he knew responsibility.  

“My queen,” his voice was gentle and coaxing, “Why have you come?” 

“To see my last remaining friend,” she took a sip of her tea, and ate a piece of fruit, trying to distract her mouth from the words.  

“And that is all?” 

“No.  To hear of my kingdoms.  I need to know where to start if I am to retake what is mine.”  

“Your throne is gone.”  

“Yes, the Iron Throne is gone, but there is still a king where there should be a queen.  Come with me back to Westeros and help me retake my throne.” 

He sat quiet for a long time.  He’d never known peace before coming to this island, and so he’d never known what he’d been missing.  He thought back on all that had been lost, and he found his taste for more bloodshed to be lacking. More importantly, he still cared for his queen and didn’t want to her to risk herself again in what was likely to only end in more bloodshed, so he decided, “No.”  

She looked surprised, her back going stiff, “Think of it.  We could liberate the people of Westeros once more. We could cover the world, root out the evil that enslaves all men.  You are the last one I have left. Come with me, make sure that what happened to Missandei happens to no one else.” 

“Your voice.  It does not sound as sure as it did before.  You have always known what direction you wished to go in, and you’ve always done what is necessary.  But your words are missing the conviction they used to have.” 

“They feel stiff in my mouth,” she admitted, “I have had time to think on all that has happened.  Dying has changed me, and I feel as if a fog has been lifted. But what am I if I cannot be what I was born to be?” 

“Whatever you want,” he replied softly.  He knew something about birth and destiny.  He’d come far from his birth, and chosen his path, “Choose for yourself.  Take Drogon, explore the world. Go back to Daario and see if his love for you remains, and be queen there in Mereen.  Do not be a slave to what your brother foisted on you from birth. Or do, but find another way. The world thinks you are dead, and so now you are free.”  

She was quiet, contemplating his words for a long time.  This was also a change in her. She was a creature of action, not one of silent contemplation.  He ate his share of fruit and drank his tea and waited on his queen. Finally, she looked back to him, “I don’t know.  I have never wanted to look back, only going forward towards my goals. But now I have no goals and only my past to get lost in.”  

“The past contains lessons.”  

“Yes,” she sighed and stood, “I shouldn’t linger too long.  I know the dangers of the island don’t wait long to defend its people.”  

He nodded, “A few hours, usually.  Just enough time to trade and leave.”  

“How do you stay without getting sick?” 

“I don’t know, but some of the unsullied got sick in the beginning.  It has never happened to me.” 

She smiled, “Missandei keeps you safe.” 

“She must,” he agreed.  He walked outside with her and towards Drogon.  When they reached the animal, she stopped and turned to him.  

“There was one more reason I came to visit.  I’ve brought you a gift,” she opened her shoulder bag and dug into it.  She pulled out a dragon egg. It was a rich cinnamon brown, with whorls of dark brown, and flecks of molten gold that sparkled in the sun.  She held it out to him. He looked at Drogon, the question clear in his expression. Dany nodded, “Dragons are as changeable as flame, and when we were in Asshai, Drogon laid a clutch of five eggs.”  

“I...thank you, my queen,” he took the egg, the shell warm in his palm, and she reached for him.  He allowed her to pull him into a hug, “I will always remember your kindness.” 

“And I will always remember your loyalty,” she replied, and let him go, “Thank you.  For everything.” 

He had no words left for her.  He nodded, stepping back as she climbed onto Drogon.  He watched them take flight, standing on the beach long after they were nothing but a speck on the horizon.  


	6. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has returned north in accordance with his punishment. But what do you do when you were once king? When you are the last Targaryen on earth, alone in the world? When you end up back where you started? Will Jon be forced to rise, or will he fade into the cold beyond the wall? How does dying and coming back to life change you? How does betrayal change you? Can you do something so horrific as kill your lover - the last of one half of your family - and still be a good man? Or even a sane one? Jon tries to answer these questions while he follows the trail of his brother, trying to figure out what really happened beyond the wall before the dead came south.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a little stylistically different than the previous few, and I hope you like it. It was done to try to make it feel a bit different to be inside of Jon's head and show how much he internalizes everything, and how far into his own brain he's sunk.

It was a mistake.  

He knew that, now, that it had all been a mistake, and every day that passed on the wall made everything else hazy and dream-like.  Had he really gone south? Had Arya really killed the Night King? Had he really been to King’s Landing, had he really ridden a dragon, was he really a Targaryen, and...had he really murdered the only shard of joy he’d seen since leaving Winterfell years ago?  He was back here in the frozen north, staring at nothing but frozen tundra with a sour look on his face. He’d been so young the first time, and now he felt as if he were thousands of years old. Not a moment passed where he didn’t consider abandoning all of this and riding south for Winterfell.  He’d heard that Grey Worm had gone back across the sea, so what was really keeping him here? His duty, that was all, and it tasted of ashes in his mouth. He knew, sadly, what ashes tasted of as well. 

His only consolation was Ghost.  And, sometimes, Tormund. After leading the Wildlings north of the wall, he’d had to return.  But Tormund visited sometimes, fresh with new unbelievable stories and sadness about “the big woman”.  That one, Jon thought, was part southerner. Jon wandered, too, and visited the new settlement the Wildlings were building.  They called it’s Baneton, after Tormund, who’d become something of a leader to them. Mostly, though, it was just Ghost. Ghost and the dreams that had become increasingly common since Jon’s untimely demise at the hands of the rest of the Night’s Watch.  

It was because of that betrayal that Jon mostly kept to himself.  He had no desire to lead again, and he wasn’t the Lord Commander. Instead, he’d taken to wandering.  He wandered the length of the wall, and so he saw what had become of the wall. Most of the castle were still abandoned, but some clung to life where there had been none before.  Some had rebuilt. 

And then there was Eastwatch-by-the-sea.  It was mostly destroyed when the Night’s King used Viserion to destroy that section of the wall, but people were people, and they were defiant.  They’d dug out the remains of the wall, scavenged what they could from the remains of the Umbers’ keep, and started to rebuild. It was a sight to see, houses clinging to the jagged - but still sturdy - edges of the breech in the wall, and a ice ships coming and going from the port.  Buildings necessary for trade - inns, moneylenders, merchants, and the like - were all on the ground; but the people lived in homes that were built into the wall. They had an extensive system of elevators, ropes, bridges, baskets, and pulleys that all allowed them to move goods and people up from the ground to the homes high above.  The port town grew every day; it replaced Hardhome as the largest port city for the Wildlings. They’d renamed it Breach - something the locals said with a sardonic grin. A curse spit in the face of the creature that had almost taken all their lives. The resilience of the human race was something that Jon had become fascinated in since his return to the wall, and Breach was a thriving example of that resilience.  The Wildlings had learned from their time in the south, but still remained true to themselves. 

But Jon himself didn’t take part in those communities.  Instead, he’d taken to spending most of his time north of the wall.  He’d placed two conditions on rejoining the Watch. One, he hadn’t re-taken his vows.  Once had been enough, and he’d fought hard to gain some measure of freedom. He’d do his duty, but he wouldn’t tie himself to them like that again.  His watch had ended years ago, and he wouldn’t be resuming it. Two, he be allowed to become a ranger rather than rejoining the stewards. He’d only been a steward to be groomed for leadership, and he wanted no part of that.  His leadership only got people killed, so he would defer to others now. Targaryen or not, he was no king. Not in the south, not in the Watch, and not beyond the wall. Now he roamed the north, checking in on the various camps of wildlines, checking in on the towns and castles along the wall, and testing his own limits.  He and Ghost shared kills, and slept under the stars, and saw others when they needed to. All of this to avoid another mistake. Another Dany. Another Rhaegal. Another war. Another death. There was only so much sadness he could stomach. So he wandered, instead. 

Until today.  Last night he’d had a wolf dream, and in that wolf dream he’d smelled something familiar.  It was an old smell, deep under the snows, and crowded by other smells. Yet, the thaw was coming far too early this winter, so the remains preserved by the snow had started to come through.  He’d smelled many things, but one strongly. Ghost hadn’t known more than that the smell was familiar - he was a wolf, he didn’t use names, save his own. But Jon had known. He’d know that the smell was the same as the one Ghost had come to associate with the big, gentle stable boy back in Winterfell.  It was Hodor. The smell had brought something to the fore in Jon’s mind. What had happened to Bran up here? How had he gone from Bran, to the Three-Eyed Raven? Jon wasn’t stupid, he knew that the wolf dreams were warging. He took them for true, even if he hadn’t attempted it while waking yet. So he knew that if Hodor was there, Bran had been there too.  He had meant to try to follow Bran’s trail north, but when he thought of it he found excuses. It is too far, it would be too hard to track, it doesn’t matter. 

And yet, the curiosity about it haunted him.  He could not understand how an entire personality could be scoured away by knowledge.  So he decided to follow Ghost’s nose. Now, though, he was lost. He stood in a cold, dark forest wool-gathering and hesitating.  He did that a lot since King’s Landing. He had nothing to do up here but wander and brood and second-guess his decisions. So mayhap it was time to do this, it would give his mind something else to ruminate on.  He was far to the north, long from any of the settlements. There was no one here to advise him one way or the other, and no one to help him find his way. 

Ghost, however, was at home.  Ghost didn’t need mens’ directions, and he didn’t need to have a destination either.  Ghost roamed at will except when he was with Jon. He kept Jon warm and fed, and listened to his friend’s man-speak without judgement.  He understood very little of it anyway. He followed his nose, played in the snow, and generally enjoyed himself. He showed Jon where there were other men-things, and Jon used his soft human claws to scratch Ghost between the shoulder blades and in other places Ghost couldn’t reach on his own.  He considered it a good arrangement. Head scratches and a pack-mate, and all he had to do was share his meat. All of this was good and right. So he led his pack-mate to the other man, the one he recognized from the time he was a pup. He found the big, white tree, and the smell of fire. He showed his pack-mate where they were.  His pack-mate felt strange. Ghost didn’t mind, his pack-mate was always a little sad. Men’s emotions didn’t make a lot of sense to him, so he ignored it. So he frolicked in the snow outside the burning cave and he waited for his human to catch up. 

Jon blinked, shaking his head to clear it.  He’d fallen asleep leaning against one of the trees and slipped into Ghost again.  It was the nearest he’d ever come to warging apurpose, and he found himself more frustrated by the need to sleep before shedding his skin than by the warging itself.  Perhaps he should try it while awake. He shrugged to himself, pushing away from the tree. He grabbed his long walking stick, shifted Longclaw into a more comfortable position, and started walking in the direction he knew Ghost was.  

It didn’t take him long before he came out of the forest at the bottom of a small rise.  Even in the watery, fading daylight this far north he could clearly see the giant weirwood atop the rise.  Its branches stretched in all directions, and Jon could see that some were damaged and dying. Others had new, tender red leaves hanging from them.  It was not dead, although Jon wasn’t sure why it should expect it to be. It was many times the size of the one in Winterfell, and so likely much, much older.  But this was not where Ghost was. Ghost was several more leagues to the north - at least another few hours of walking. At times like this, Jon wished for a horse.  He started north, keeping the cave in his memory. He knew, without being told, that this was where Bran had died. 

It took him about four more hours of walking to reach the spot where Ghost was napping.  The huge weirwood was just visible still to the south, now a few leagues away. Jon was on the other side of the rise.  Ghost woke and looked up at Jon’s approach, his tail swishing against the snow. He yawned and stood, stretching. 

Despite the time that had passed since the event, it was obvious something had happened here.  Bones littered the ground, sticking out of the melting snows. There was an open, yawning black mouth in the side of the hill.  The musty smell of death and damp earth and char came from it, and Jon frowned. Ghost was sniffing around, shoving his face into a snow-covered lump in front of the doorway, and pawing at it.  

“What have you found?,” Jon asked, coming closer.  Ghost whined and looked at the lump. Before he’d gone south, Jon would have ignored these signals from Ghost, but since spending so much time alone with the wolf up here in the north, he’d learned to trust Ghost’s intuition.  He stuck his walking stick into the mound of snow near where Ghost was pawing. Instead of hitting snow, he heard the muffled thump of wood on wood. His frown deepened, and he started to use the stick to push clods of snow away from whatever was underneath.  The slight melt made it sticky, so he removed large clumps with little effort. 

So it wasn’t long before he’d uncovered what was clearly one side of a door.  The feeling of importance settled in his stomach, and he begun to dig around the edge of the door, removing the snow.  It took some time, but he got the whole of the wooden door exposed. It was cracked and splintered, and clearly covered in scratch marks.   _ This must be the back side of it _ , he realized.  It had fallen forward from the doorframe, and something else was beneath it.  Something large. The feelings in Jon’s gut intensified, and he looked at Ghost.  Ghost ducked his head, his red eyes watching to see what Jon would do. 

“Should I lift it?,” his only answer was a small yip, which he took to be a yes.  Ghost hadn’t led him all this way, and hadn’t encouraged him to come to this spot, only to not find out what was under this broken door.  Sighing, Jon found an open place on one of the long sides of the door and dug his fingers under it. He lifted it fairly easily, and let it tumble into the snow on the far side.  Steeling himself, he looked down. 

There were some rotting bones and scraps of clothing, the kind he associated with wights.  But, easily visible below that, was Hodor’s body. The snow and the freezing temperatures of the north in winter had preserved his body well.  He could have died mere hours ago, rather than more than a year or two ago. Such was the case in the north - bodies were often found frozen on the mountains, wearing clothing older than anyone could identify, or carrying weapons long-since having fallen out of use.  Seeing Hodor here was not surprising as much as it was sad. Jon stood, staring down at the body, thinking. 

He wondered how it was that Hodor came to be trapped under a door.  It was almost as if he’d been leaning on it, and was overwhelmed. But Hodor wouldn’t have done that, he wasn’t brave or smart.  He wouldn’t have thought to hold the door closed against the undead, he would have simply run, or been overwhelmed. He couldn’t fight.  He mostly just did what Bran--

“--tells him,” Jon said aloud, the thought strong enough to escape his mind through his mouth.  Would Hodor even be able to do this? Even if Bran asked him to? Would Bran have asked him to sacrifice himself this way? He knew, from Sansa, that Bran had shown up in Winterfell with Meera and a sled.  Jojen was gone, Hodor was gone, and Summer was lost in the north as well. Bran had shared very little of his journey north and, in truth, there hadn’t been much time to ask him for the truth. Jon hadn’t even thought to do it.  His little brother was alive, and he hadn’t much cared to know how that happened. Seeing Hodor alone in the snow, scratches all over him, made Jon wish he’d asked more questions. 

One of which would be, how had Hodor died? Jon couldn’t see any damage, aside from the scratches.  He started to pick off the remains of the wights to fling them away from the poor boy, and another thought occurred to him: why hadn’t Hodor been raised as a wight? If he’d been dead after the Night King came through, he would have been raised.  So did he die after? Jon remembered Bran saying that he was the Night King’s target, that the Night King had marked him. If Bran escaped through this door, as it seemed he might have, had the Night King simply moved on to chase Bran? Had Hodor been crushed by the weight of the undead charging over the broken door in their haste to get to Bran, then later died of those injuries? 

Too many questions, and the one that most played in his mind was: why had Hodor stayed behind holding the door shut against the onslaught of undead? It was inconsistent with the simple man Jon had known at Winterfell.  Something nagged in the back of his mind, tugging on his subconscious with unpleasant, stinking claws. Something he wasn’t really ready to ask or consider just yet. 

He stood.  He would like to bury Hodor, but the ground was still too hard and Hodor was simply too large for Jon to move on his own.  He could, however, build a cairne. He looked at the sky, squinting. There wasn’t enough daylight left in the day to do that, though, and he needed to set up camp.  So he would leave Hodor for the moment, and return to him after sleeping. 

He made camp under nearby trees.  The cave was likely warmer, but he wasn’t ready to venture down into it and certainly wasn’t comfortable enough to spend the night there.  So he took the door that had covered Hodor, and he used the handaxe he carried to chop it into firewood. He was a little wet, but mostly only on the side that had touched the snow.  There was some steam from the fire, some popping and cracking, but it burned and it was a good source of wood. He made himself a warm dinner of stew from dried meat and some root vegetables he’d managed to come across a few days ago, and some other things he’d found in the forest.  He’d gotten much better at things like this since spending his time wandering the north alone. He ate, the sun went down, and he slept. 

That night, the dreams were vivid.  They weren’t wolf dreams, those had a different feel to them.  They felt like the real world. These did not. These dreams were brought up from the depths of Jon’s own horrific memories.  The musty, dead smell of his uncle Benjen while Jon rode behind him on a horse that went nowhere. It rode and rode, and when Jon asked where they were, Benjen was silent and cold.  Jon fell from the horse, and kept falling. Clouds were above and the ground was below, Winterfell burning. A loud, familiar, animal scream pierced the night, and Jon knew he’d fallen from Rhaegal’s back.  

_ My dragon! _ He thought,  _ Bring me my dragon! _ His dragon would save him.  They were bonded, like he bonded to Ghost.  A knife flew by Jon’s face, scratching his cheek, and he remembered.   _ Of course my dragon won’t save me.  I’ve killed him. I stabbed him _ .   _ He loved me and I stabbed him...her... _ silver hair came with a smokey laugh.  Violet eyes filled with hope and love. He closed his eyes and tried to cry, but the cold, rushing wind froze his tears on his cheeks.  He could not cry. He could not mourne. He could not let go. 

The ground rushed up and Jon fell through it into a dark, soft place.  He stopped falling, but he could not see. There was a strange sound in the darkness, a cracking, snapping noise.  White roots came slithering out of the darkness, like grave worms moving across a corpse. White like bone, white like snow, white like Ghost.  He was alone and scared in this place, and he wanted to run. His mind shouted MOVE!, but he could not. There was nothing to grab with his hands to help himself move, and his legs were moving through thick, thick darkness.  The living roots came closer, and he felt the scratch of bark as the wrapped around his ankles. He screamed in silent agony as the wound themselves through and around him, piercing muscle and sinew and organs and tying him to them.  They fed him image after image, none of which he could focus on long enough to see. A great, burning tide that he fought. He could not swim in this river, could not stand in this fire. He withdrew into himself as tightly as he could, trying to shut his mind to the images.  Finally, they abated, but he could feel them at the edges of his mind. 

Behind him, he heard the sound of a dragon’s scream and then angry, rushing fire.  The heat of it seared his pierced flesh, but he could not move to avoid it. There was only endurance.  There was only pain and dark. The dragonfire did not chase it away. He was breathing in great, heaving breaths.  Then he heard more sounds in front of him. This sounded like the cracking of ice underfoot, the twang and song of a barely frozen lake surface.  The scream and crunch when icicles were chewed. But the noises had rhythm to them, like a language. The sound got closer. Then, in the never-ending darkness of this grave, crystalline blue eyes.  


	7. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death changes you. For good or ill, Dany has returned. But what now? Can she reckon with her actions before her death? Is there a place for her in the world? And, most importantly, what is the status of her madness?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to get this written! I've been busy, and I tend to only write when I'm in the mood anyway. 
> 
> I've been waiting for awhile to write this chapter and I hope I haven't forgotten anyone in my eagerness to get to Dany's first chapter. I've been trying to put things in chronological order, but the timeline is a pretty unwieldy beast. Ah well, I'm only one person and each of these chapters has involved several hours of research on both the show and TV wikis, and sometimes re-reading chapters. It's like 2 am here, so I'll go through it tomorrow in an effort to fix the typos that are probably there.
> 
> I also stick Vaes Tolorro in there because IRL I'm studying to be an evolutionary anthropologist and right now I'm midway through a bioarchaeology masters, so arch has just been in my brain and I love the deep history and lore portion of GoT/ASOIAF. =D But rest assured, the details about the mummies and what would and wouldn't survive are likely accurate due to my IRL training.

At least it was warm.  That’s what she kept telling herself.  At least she was no longer freezing in the cold north, terrified of something she couldn’t negotiate with.  She was alone, here, in Vaes Tolorro. It wasn’t like last time. She wasn’t confused and young and vulnerable, depending on Jorah and hoping her small khalasar.  No, now she ate the fruit in the city and shared Drogon’s kills, and when she needed to fly, she flew. These crumbling white walls were hers, and she spent many hours exploring the ruins.  She still often thought about the child she’d been. The lonely, scared girl who found her strength with a people she hadn’t been born to, and with a husband she’d been sold to. She still missed her sun-and-stars, she still felt his loss keenly.  More, now, since the red priests brought her back from the dead. It was as he’d said - she remembered nothing of death but darkness. She was glad to be alive. 

In some ways, though, she still was that scared, lonely young woman.  She had no army, though, no ships, no friends, no country. Nothing. She’d risen high, indeed, and fallen back to where she’d begun.  She knew that there was no iron throne anymore, and that Westeros was now only six kingdoms. Bran was king, though, even if the throne her family built was no longer there.  That throne, her birthright, had consumed her for her entire life. Now that it was gone, she was adrift. Who was she if she wasn’t a Targaryen? If she wasn’t the breaker of chains, the mother of dragons, the unburnt, Khaleesi of the great grass sea, or queen? She didn’t know, and so after leaving Asshai, she’d come back here to be queen of a crumbling, ancient city.  The dragon made people uncomfortable, even in someplace like Asshai. She hadn’t cared before, but she wasn’t ready yet to be Daenerys Targaryen, destroyer of cities, yet. So she left the curious, sad city and returned to the only place she thought might be safe from the outside world. The journey to Vaes Tolorro was difficult overland, but Drogon made short work of it.  

She’d taken to passing the time by reading the scrolls they’d seen when she was last here.  Although they couldn’t be transported, Dany found that if she was gentle she could unroll them.  They were cracked and damaged and missing pieces, but it had become a game to her. Some she could not read at all, because they were written in an ancient dialect that looked similar to the language of the Qartheen, but some were written in an older dialect of Valayrian.  There were even some words from the common tongue of the Westerosi hidden in the faded pages. It was evidence of a rich trade civilization, and of a city that was a vital piece of the old Qaathi empire. She’d found other things, too, that supported her suppositions. The dry desert heat preserved things well.  She’d even stumbled across some people, victims of the Dothraki that had naturally been mummified. She didn’t touch them, but what was left of their clothes was similar to what people wore in Qarth now. While she’d always cared more about the present and the future, delving into the past of this city gave her mind something to do while she worried at her other problems.  

Of course, translation was a tricky thing, and she was no scholar, but she’d found a scroll that contained four versions of the same proclamation.  On in high Valyrian, one in the common tongue of the Westerosi, one in the ancient language of Vaes Tolorro, and a fourth in a language she did not know.  But the fourth language wasn’t important, the importance of the proclamation lie in its usefulness in translating other documents. After she found it, she re-visited many of the scrolls she’d already attempted to read.  Mostly they contained accountings of trade, but sometimes she crossed clusters of other things. Stories about ancient gods, or gossip about neighbors. She guessed that they were educated, too, because they counted days and dates like the maesters of the citadel.  She’d even found one about dragons, although she’d been able to translate little of it. Only enough to know it was about dragons, and magic. She’d tried again and again, but she hadn’t been able to puzzle it out. So she’d hollowed out a branch and put a caps on the ends, one of which was removable, to make a case for that specific scroll.  She couldn’t take all of them, but she’d take that one with her when she eventually left. It wasn’t a purpose, really, she still didn’t have a goal, but it was...something. 

The time to leave was fast approaching.  She could feel Drogon’s restlessness like tiny flames dancing under her skin.  He was bored, and truth be told, so was she. While she occupied her time and kept her mind sharp with the scrolls, they were ultimately a meaningless endeavor.  She needed something else. Moreover, she was lonely. She loved Drogon as her companion, but he wasn’t human. She hungered for conversation. That’s what had prompted her trip to see Grey Worm.  And he’d made a suggestion that was even now, days later, still playing in her mind. Her last friend, her only friend, was in Meereen. So it was that she resolved before sleeping that night to leave the next morning.  

They day dawned cloudy.  It was never cloudy in the desert, and the presence of the ominous steel-grey skies made her feel uneasy.   _ I should not be here _ , she thought to herself,  _ I am living in a dead city.  I am not among them anymore. I should not be here. _

She gathered her few possessions, stuffing them into the pack along with the four remaining eggs.  She kept them nearby always, and Drogon seemed to not be interested in them. So she kept them near her and cared for them as she had cared for Viserion, Rhaegal, and Drogon.  That meant putting them into her only satchel alongside some food, water, a change of clothes, and the branch containing the scroll. She also had a map she’d brought with her from Asshai.  It made flying easier. The map was the first thing she consulted before she left. Meereen was a long flight to the northeast, but she should at least be able to make the Ghiscari hills and leave behind the Red Waste.  

She mounted Drogon and spurred him to flight, revelling in the feel of the wind rushing over her as he climbed high.  She held on tight to his frill, legs clamped down. It wasn’t like riding a horse, she didn’t have to direct him with movements of her body.  He understood words, and the bond between them gave them an intuitive sense of each other. So he flew higher, towards the storm clouds. She wasn’t afraid.  She was Daenerys stormborn, and she was on a dragon. 

He flew almost to the height of the clouds, and turned north.  She stayed just below the clouds - much higher and it got too cold for her, and harder to breathe.  She’d lost the warm clothing she’d brought from Westeros, and it was just as well. She didn’t need the reminder of that day.  She was content to wear what she’d gotten from the red priests in Asshai, but it wasn’t much protection against the temperatures of the upper atmosphere, so she stayed here.  She could see the world from up here, the red waste filled most of the landscape. It was so vast that she couldn’t see the edge of it, and the Ghiscari hills were too small to be anything more than a green-grey smudge on the horizon.  They flew towards that smudge. 

Hours later the smudge turned into defined, rolling hills.  They were once tall mountains, but they were so old that time had worn them down.  Now they were an easily passable boundary to the desert. They’d made better time than she’d expected, so she landed near a river to give Drogon some time to hunt.  There was game here, because the old mountains were topped in grass and forest, and the rivers made for fertile growth. Drogon found prey quickly, killing and eating several mountain goats from a herd.   _ He’s grown so strong _ , she thought proudly,  _ he eats so well.  Dragons never stop growing.  Someday he’ll be as big as the Black Dread.  _

They flew onwards, getting close to Meereen, and Dany started to have second thoughts,  _ Should I land him outside the city? Come through the gates as a traveller? Or should I fly him to the Pyramid? Am I ready to be known to the outside world again? _ For if she landed in Meereen, it would not be long before word spread of Drogon.  One does not just hide and enormous black dragon. And he was so much larger than when she’d left.  She shook her head, trying to banish these insecurities,  _ No.  I am the blood of the dragon, and this is my city.  I will not hide. After I return to rule them, they will learn to love Drogon as I do.  And if they don’t, well, they would not be the first city to suffer _ .  

These thoughts of blood and death came easily to her; they had a comfortable fit.  But they no longer stirred her heart. The only thing she felt was exhaustion and loneliness.  The house with the red door stood as brightly as ever in her mind, and everything that came with it.  Her tongue remembered the taste of lemon drinks and lemon cakes and the tart smell of the tree. Maybe she should turn from Meereen and go to Braavos.  Maybe she could find the house with the red door, and finally she could rest. 

She recognized this pathway of thought.  She’d had it many times. The ending was only sadness for her.  Some part of her wished they’d left her dead.  _ What am I without the throne? I have no home.  I have no family. I have no friends. Who am I without that quest? Must I always stand up again? Must I continue to chase the dreams of my father and brothers? Did I ever really want the throne to begin with? _ Round and round she’d gone in her mind.  She never had the answers, and her mood was changeable as flame.  Some days she wanted to scream at the sky, and at the gods, for placing her on the earth.  Leading others was in her blood, but it was also in her nature, and she was incapable of leaving well enough alone.  And yet...she had doubts, now. Destiny had abandoned her, and she was left to scabble around like all the rest. Even so, she didn’t think it was her lot to stay in the desert reading old scrolls and wool-gathering.  She was meant for more. 

The great pyramid of Meereen loomed in the distance, and the storm clouds of the desert were far behind her.  The water of the Bay of Dragon’s glittered to the west, once again full of merchant vessels that looked like tiny, dark dots from this distance.  The only sound she could hear was the rushing of the wind and the creak of Drogon’s leatheren wings. The strength of them pushed her closer to the pyramid.  Closer to Daario, and closer to the rest of world. She hoped it would be home, the strange city she’d resided in for so long. Mayhaps this time she could become accustomed to the place.  She’d never quite gotten used to it last time. 

Soon, the city was spread beneath her, the smaller pyramids and homes falling under the shadow of her dragon.  Images flooded her mind of another city that had fallen under Drogon’s shadow, red-roofed and far from here. Wheeling and dancing above it, a fog of rage clouding her vision.  Screaming people running, children burning, the smell of smoke heavy in the air. Her mind flung her back there, to the eerie green fire and heat of it mixing with the heat of Drogon’s flames.  Fire, so much fire. The snow mixed with ash, coating everything below her, smacking her in the face while she flew. Horses screamed, and oh, the anger. Bubbling, seething anger that reached every cell in her body.  How dare she? How dare Cersei use these people to hide behind? She’d rip her out, she’d make her pay for Missandei. Oh, gods, Missandei. Grief churned up her heart, and the anger was there behind it. Then the sharp pain in her chest.  Too much, it was too much. She could not...she could not...

Drogon screamed.  

It was not anger in his sound, not righteous fury, but distress.  She gripped his frill tighter, the rough surface digging into her hands.  She fought to drag lungfuls of air into her body, and it brought the smell of spices.   _ Meereenese _ spices.   _ No! I am not there! I am not in that place! I am here, in Meereen.  I am not in that nightmare anymore _ .  Slowly, far too slowly, the red receded from her vision.  She loosened her deathgrip on Drogon. She dragged herself into the present, and left the horrors of her past in the past.  The ghosts would visit again, she knew, but for now she’d fought them off. 

She circled the pyramid, taking in the city, before landing on the terrace outside the audience chamber.  Drogon flew away and up to the top of the pyramid, wrapping himself around the apex to sleep as he used to when they’d lived there before.  After she watched him get settled, Dany turned and walked into the audience chamber. She didn’t know if that’s where Daario would be, but it was a good place to start.  

As it turned out, the chamber was empty.  She knew it would be difficult for anyone to have missed the presence of the dragon on top of the pyramid, so rather than search for him, she decided to wait.  She looked up at the dais, at the simple ebony bench she’d chosen to rule Meereen from, and considered taking that seat again. How satisfying it would be to sit so high again.  How much good she could do from up there. And who would stop her? She had a dragon. She had taken the city once without Drogon. With him, it would be easy. She looked up at it, deciding.  

The sound of boots clomping on stone made her turn from the bench to the door.  The response had been swift, indeed. It was only a moment before Daario arrived with his guards.  She heard the tail end of the guards speaking to him, one of them saying, “That thing is huge now, how are we supposed to get rid of it?” 

She saw Daario first, and her gaze stayed on him.  He looked much as she’d left him, but he’d taken to dying his hair and outlandish shade of blue.  He stopped short, the man behind him nearly bumping into him, and stared at her from across the audience hall.  She smiled at him, “Daario.” 

Because he seemed frozen, she walked to him, her smile hurting her cheeks.  She reached for him, and when she touched him, he jerked back, “You’re dead.”  

“I was,” she agreed, “I no longer am.”  

A few of the soldiers hissed and backed away, making a hand sign to ward off evil.  Daario stood his ground, but he didn’t reach for her, “How?” 

“The followers of R’hllor.  They found me and brought me back, then they took me to Asshai to heal from...my wounds,” she was never ready to think about that part, she couldn’t even say the words.  

“Your...wounds...,” he was still dumbstruck.  

“Yes,” she didn’t elaborate, “Perhaps we should speak in private?” 

He blinked, breaking his trance and nodded to the soldiers behind him, “Leave.”  

The one to his left said, “But the beast?” 

“He will go where he likes,” she answered, injecting the cold steel of command into her voice, “And you will let him.”  

“I doubt we could stop him anyway,” Daario said, “We will be fine.  Return to your posts. My friend and I have much to discuss.” 

“As you wish,” the soldier replied, and they filed out of the room.  

“Are you not happy to see me?,” Dany asked, frowning.  

“Not exactly, no,” she’d forgotten this about him.  His honesty could be cutting. 

“Why not?” 

“You broke my heart and left me to clean up the mess of the city.  Every time you come to Meereen, thousands die. Now you’ve brought Drogon with you.  I’m glad you’re not dead, Dany, but happy to see you? No. Where the dragon queen goes, death follows.”  

“I’m no queen.  Not anymore.” 

Her comment just made him look sad, “You’re always a queen, Dany.  No matter what else you might be, you are that.” 

“I’ve not come here as a queen.  I’ve only come to see a friend.” 

“Oh? And how long until will you stay here this time before growing restless? How long until you use Meereen to raise another army?” 

“I need no army.  I have a dragon.” 

“Yes,” a shiver of ice entered his tone, “I’ve heard.  So has King’s Landing.” 

The dangerous, fiery anger flared, “They deserved--” 

“The children and innocent citizens deserved to die in pain? By being burned alive?” 

“Cersei thought she could use them as a shield! I had no choice!” 

“You did, Dany, and she should have been able to!” 

“You have no right--” 

“I have every right when you’ve brought your dragon to my city!” 

“ _ Your _ city?” 

“Yes,  _ my _ city.  You left me here to do a job, and by all the gods I am doing it.  It’s awful, thankless work, but the city is better for it. The slaves are still free, and we have found other means of--,” he cut himself off mid-diatribe and sighed heavily, “What I am trying to say, is that you’ve always seen things that others haven’t.  The Dany that took this city found a way to do it without harming innocents. That is the woman you are. The woman who didn’t think she should sacrifice the lives of those she meant to free. That is why your people followed you, not the dragons. That woman would have found a way to free King’s Landing without burning it to the ground.” 

She wanted to yell at him again, to find angry words to throw in the face of his accusations, but she thought back on the resources she’d had.  Arya, a faceless man with a grudge specifically against Cersei. Tyrion, who knew all the people in the city, and knew hidden ways in and out of it.  Varys, who knew every inch and secret of the Red Keep. She could have leveraged these things, but she didn’t because she’d wanted to exact her revenge on Cersei.  She’d wanted to hurt Cersei for all she’d done. She’d been so tired of  _ him _ getting credit for the work she’d done.  Of being denied. Of death. She’d wanted an end to it, and she’d wanted to cleanse her pain with her dragon’s fire.  

“Oh gods,” she choked on a sob, stumbling backwards and letting herself fall heavily onto the bottom steps of the dais, “What have I done?” 


	8. Samwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam has temporarily returned to the citadel to continue his studies while Gilly recovers from the birth of their child nearby at Horn Hill. He makes a new friend in Alleras Sand, a brilliant young man from Dorne. One afternoon, Alleras brings Sam an interesting puzzle to chew on, and the research hole that they fall down may have dire implications for the whole of Westeros and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is what happens when two academics find something they thing is really, really cool. GRRM has expressly stated that the seasons in Westeros are magical, so I am disregarding any of the astronomy-based theories for the seasons in Westeros. I did a LOT of research for this one, lemme tell you. This isn't even a pet theory of mine, this is just where I arrived while researching the seasons in Westeros. And I may have stretched the bounds of what would conceivably be in the libraries of the citadel, but in truth we really don't know, so I figured fudging it was more interesting than stretching it out over chapters and having Sam wander around god's green earth for some books. 
> 
> Some of the science here is correct: Bones that have been improperly prepared and cleaned *are* greasy, or oily. And, there is a lot of evidence that shows that indigenous oral histories are shockingly accurate. This is a point I think Martin got wrong (unless he's counting on people not knowing that.). Oral histories can be more accurate than the written word, and older. Oral histories can sometimes seem inaccurate at first because we don't understand the context, but often they're right. For example, people indigenous to Rapa Nui told researchers that the Moai "walked" to their spots on the island. This, of course, sounds like fantasy. How do giant stones walk? Well, as it turns out, experimental archaeology shows that the full stone figures can be easily moved by only a few people by rocking them back and forth with ropes. The process looks remarkably like walking. So there's your fun fact for the day. =D

“I like the smell of books,” Sam said, looking up.  Dust swirled in the bright afternoon sunshine coming in the windows that lined the top of this particular library.  There were many in the citadel, but Sam liked this one. Lots of old books and lots of places to read, and usually not so many people.  The acolyte sitting next to him, a slight young boy with dark skin, curled hair, and a soft Dornish accent, smiled at him fondly. 

“I couldn’t have guessed,” he replied, “With the amount of time you spend in the library.”  

“Well, I also like reading.” 

“Yes.  I think maybe we all do.  That’s why you spend so much time here, I think, rather than in King’s Landing or Horn Hill.”  

“Well, I just get in the way at Horn Hill,” he’d been splitting his time, it was true.  Gilly had given birth recently to their child, a healthy little boy they’d named Dickon.  In time, Little Sam and Dickon would inherit Horn Hill, but for now it was a refuge for his healing woman.  His mother and sisters were there, too, although his sisters were almost of an age to be married; and it was supposedly his job to find them husbands. Sam didn’t like thinking about that, so he came to the citadel.  He still had many links to forge, despite being chosen by Bran as Grand Maester. Alleras, the boy sitting with him, had decided that Sam was a subject of great interest and had taken it upon himself to follow Sam around.  

“I see.  How is it that you have a son, anyway?” 

How could it be that no one had explained this to the boy? The idea of it made Sam uncomfortable, but someone ought to be the one to do it, “Well, when a man and a woman come together, they--”

Another smile flashed.  The others called Alleras The Sphinx, and his quick smile was part of the reason for the moniker, “Not that part, silly.  You’re a brother of the Night’s Watch, and a maester besides. Two sets of vows that say you can’t have kids. Or lands, for that matter.”  

“Oh, that.  King Bran released me from my vows to the Night’s Watch on account of my father and brother dying.  Said I’d earned my freedom, and I hadn’t done anything wrong to begin with. As to the other, technically you don’t have to be a sworn maester to be Grand Maester.  Nothing in the law says so, it’s just a title on the small council. So I haven’t taken a maesters vows yet. I haven’t even finished my chain.” 

“If that isn’t a fancy bit of rules-soliciting.”  

Sam ignored the comment, redirecting him, “Did you come in here looking for something?” 

The boy’s dark brown eyes lit up.  Sam knew the look well by now. He’d found something interesting or noteworthy that excited his thoughts.  He tapped the heavy volume on the top of a stack next to them on the table, “Yes! I noticed something very interesting.  I am working on my bronze link, so I was reading  _ A Treatise on Historical Weather and Climate Patterns _ volume 17--” 

“A page-turning read, sounds like.”  

Alleras shrugged and kept on, “It could be worse.  In any event, Maester Garth mentions in it that he’d found an old text talking about the weather.  He was on the conclave and particularly educated on the seasons, you see, so he was interested in these things.  Some other texts say he was quite good at his job, so his obsession served him. He read that the seasons that during the Dawn Age the seasons were short and regular.  Predictable.” 

Now this caught Sam’s attention.  Mysteries usually did. Mysteries in books were even better, “Did he find any other evidence?” 

Alleras’s eyes sparked with interest and he leaned forward in his excitement, “He did.  He references it in volume 18, saying he wrote a whole other volume dedicated to the subject.” 

“I think I see where this is going.” 

“Of course you do, that’s why you’re Grand Maester,” Sam fidgeted and gave a nervous smile.  That was most assuredly  _ not _ why he was Grand Maester, “It’s in the restricted section that I’m not allowed to study yet.”  

“And you want me to get it for you,” the best part about being Grand Maester was that Sam had access to any book he wanted.  

“Of course I do, but I haven’t told you the most interesting bit.” 

“Go on then.” 

“It’s in the section on mysticism with the other texts used in studying for the valyrian steel link.” 

“What is a weather text doing in the restricted magical section?” 

“I don’t know, but I knew you’d want to find out just as badly as I do,” Alleras was right, of course.  Sam was now well and truly interested. 

“Right,” he stood, his chair scraping the stone floor, “Let’s go then.”  

Hours later the sun had come and gone.  They’d burned through several candles, and the books were piled so high on either side of them that they could barely see each other.  They’d had to move everything to a larger table to accommodate it all. The volume in question turned out to be slim, but well-referenced, and each subsequent book led them further and further into their research until they ended up in an entirely different place than they'd started.  A servant had come and gone with their last meal hours ago. Sam’s eyes ached and his brain felt overloaded. He was starving, tired, and he had to pee. But none of that mattered to him right now. Right now he was putting together the pieces of a huge, huge jigsaw.  It spanned centuries and cultures and myths. He’d gone through several reams of paper and three quarters of a pot of ink just taking notes. Alleras had two more scrolls’ worth on top of that. 

Alleras rubbed his eyes and looked up at Sam, “How long was it, again?” 

“Nothing specific, but it seems like the whole cycle roughly correlated with a year.  It’s so long ago, though. We can’t be sure. Virtually nothing survives from then,” a frustrating truth was the people didn’t always write things down, and some stories predated the written word.  Then there were kings like Baelor the Blessed, who destroyed as many works of Septon Barth as he could get his hands on. Septon Barth’s words were in Sam’s mind, because the fragments of his books that remained were among the pile on the table.  

“What’s the first thing we know for sure?” 

“Evidence of regular seasons stops when the long night begins.  We know for sure that the others came during a long winter,” Sam shuddered at their mention.  He hadn’t forgotten that horror, and he never would. 

“Yes, and then there’s,” Sam shuffled through his papers, looking for the note, “Maester Yonrey, who collected an oral tale from Qarth about there being a second moon.  Ah, yes, here it is ‘Once there were two moons, but one cracked and the dragons came. One day the other moon will touch the sun too, and the dragons will return’.” 

“Right, but the dragons did return and we still have a moon, and it’s only an oral tale.”  

“Oral tales are notoriously accurate, though, Alleras.  Don’t discount them. People treasure stories told to keep the night at bay.  They protect them, and the Qartheen are an old people. They aren’t the only ones with a story like that.  There’s several mentions of red priests from Essos saying that there was a second moon, and that it cracked open. The moon didn’t crack when Dany hatched the dragons, but there was the red comet.”  

Alleras frowned and looked hard at once of the books, “Wait, I read in one of the astronomical books that sometimes comets are cyclical.  They come and go on regular schedules, like the planets do. But many, many times longer.” 

“So a comet then, another red comet.  It came during a long winter, and this time it came during a long summer.”  

“Yes, and that’s the first time we hear stories of the others.  That’s when the wall was built and house Stark was founded.” 

“Something doesn’t fit,” Sam frowned, thinking, and another piece dropped into place, “Barth says that the Valyrians created the dragons with blood magic, but that can’t be true.  The Freehold was founded several thousand years after the Long Night ended, which means the dragons predate the Valyrians.” 

“So they are natural creatures, not magical ones?” 

“Mayhaps.  I couldn’t say for sure.  It might just be that the bond between dragon and rider is magical, not the dragons themselves.”  

“It means that the other creation myth, the one the Valyrians told about the dragons coming from the Fourteen Flames, can’t be true either.”  

“When is the first mention of the dragons?” 

“The stories of them coming from the second moon.  But little and less survives from before the Long Night.  Just because it is the first mention doesn’t mean that it is the beginning of them,” Sam was tired, but the thrill of the mystery was on him, and all of his aches were ignored in favor of the thread of the story.  

“The stories of the others, the dragons, and the erratic seasons all emerge at the same time.”  

“As far as we can tell.  There is another tale that tells of them coming from the Shadowlands.”  

“And there is a tale from Yi Ti that the Long Night, and the Others, came when an emperor called,” Alleras shuffled his papers, “The Bloodstone Emperor killed his sister and started worshipping a ‘black stone that fell from the sky’.”  

“Asshai is built from black stone,” Sam said, given a jaw-cracking yawn.  It was an offhand comment made by a tired mind, but Alleras seized on it. 

“You mean, the city closest to the very place dragons are said to come from?,” there was a pause in their feverish conversation while they both digested the information.  When Alleras spoke again, his voice was quiet, “Sam, what if it’s not stone?” 

“I don’t follow.”  

“When I was a child, my father showed me a small thing.  It was a token for luck, really, but he called it a dragon bone.  It was black and felt of stone, and was hard and strong as a diamond,” Sam couldn’t argue that point.  He’d seen the skulls in the basement of the Red Keep during the cleanup, and he knew what Alleras was saying was true.  Dragon bones were black and hard, and when polished, they looked like stone. Though where a bastard's father had gotten a dragon bone, he couldn't begin to guess, “And in my studies, I’ve seen some of the preserved skeletons kept at the citadel.  Animals, mostly. Some are poorly cleaned before they are preserved, and do you know what happens to them? They are greasy.” 

“Oily,” Sam said, voice quiet, seeing where Alleras was leading, “Like the stone in Asshai.  You think the black stone is dragon bone? How could that be? It must be carved, it cannot be melted, and some of the ancient black stones are fused.”  

“Unless you had dragon fire.  The Valyrians had an abundance of dragons, and they had Dragonstone.  Dragonstone is decidedly similar to fused black stone.” 

“Yes, but what does this all have to do with the weather?” 

“Think on it, Sam.  If the stone is dragon bone, then the dragons have been on our planet for longer than anything else.”  

“But the seasons don’t start changing until somewhere around the time of the long night, when the Others arrived.”  

“And it got worse after the extinction of the dragons.  What if the control of the weather isn’t astronomical, it’s magical, and the others interrupted the magic that kept it in balance?” 

“It’s an interesting theory, but it all hinges on this black stone being dragon bone.  It’s the only proof that dragons long predate other creatures.” 

“If only there was some nearby that we could study, and someone with the authority to gain access to it,” the grin that split Alleras’s face was more roguish than Sam entirely liked.  Hightower, at the center of the city they were in right now, was built on a base of ancient black fused stone. It was older than anyone knew, and contained far more secrets than anyone was comfortable with.  Even the Hightowers didn’t know them all. 

“Oh no, absolutely not.  That is far too much political maneuvering for a scientific endeavor.  Far too much red tape. Study is one thing, Sphinx, but we can’t just go to Hightower and start scaping bits off the wall for study.”  

“Of course we can.  Besides, we need to.”  

“No we don’t, we  _ want _ to.  We don’t  _ need _ to.”  

“Yes, we do.” 

“And why is that? Tell me, oh wise novice,” Sam’s hunger and exhaustion were starting to make him cranky.  He was in no mood to beg his way into the Hightowers’ castle just to satisfy a curiosity. 

“Because, Sam.  It's been months.  There is one dragon, and no Others, and no sign of spring.  So either we’re wrong, or...,” Alleras trailed off, knowing Sam was smart enough to reach the same conclusion he’d reached.  

“Or we didn’t defeat the others.”   


	9. Tyrion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in King's Landing, Arienne makes her way to court, and Tyrion senses that her presence will be no small challenge. She brings a gift that causes controversy at court and makes it impossible for Bran to refuse her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know some of you were probably very patiently waiting for our favorite (or least favorite) dwarf to return, and here he is. I hope you like it. :)

_ The true punishment of being hand is having to climb all these steps so frequently _ , Tyrion thought to himself as he descended the tower of the hand.  Of all the tower in the red keep, one of the few Dany left standing was this one.  The dragon queen continued to make his life miserable, even after death. Being Bran’s hand wasn’t so bad, the alternative considered, but there were also drawbacks.  Waddling his way around the Red Keep was one of them. Of course, whenever he felt angry or sad, he pictured his father being given then news that Tyrion was hand and had inherited Casterly Rock, and he smiled again.  

He made his way through the castle, having to take a different route today than he had yesterday to avoid the workmen.  The restoration of the castle and city were a long, painstaking process that inconvenienced everybody, but he’d managed to turn it into a kind of prosperity for the city.  The docks were open again, and a city the size of King’s Landing was a fat purse for merchants from all over. Food came easily from Essos to supplement what they hadn’t managed to collect and safe and what had been lost in the war.  Some parts of Dorne and the Reach also stayed fertile, even in winter. The Arbor in particular had become an even more important trading partner. Giving Bronn Highgarden had been impulsive, but so far it hadn’t been a mistake. One of the few smart decisions he’d made in the past few years, really.  

He reached the small council chamber and hoisted himself up into his seat, sighing as he got to rest his aching legs.  The papers he required were already laid out by one of the stewards, and he flipped through them while he waited for the others.  It’d been months, and they still lacked a master of laws, whispers, and war. Too many losses in the wars made it difficult to fill the positions.  No one wanted to be the master of war. They were tired and sick of loss. In truth, this would have been an excellent position for Jon Snow; his grasp of strategy and hesitancy to resort to violence were a good mix.  But he’d been banished to the wall, and although Grey Worm was gone, Jon could not be convinced to return. The last anyone knew, he was wandering around north of the wall with that wolf of his. Master of laws sat empty because to have a master of laws, there needed to  _ be _ laws, and Bran had not finished altering them yet.  Master of whisperers was a sensitive position, and none had come close to fitting it.  

People started to filter in.  Brienne, always on time, was first to arrive.  Samwell was away in Oldtown, so he would not be arriving.  Davos came next, and that left only Bronn. Bran didn’t usually attend small council meetings.  He preferred to serve his kingdom by holding audiences in the garden by the weirwood. It was a change, but so were most things since the dragon queen.  

Tyrion heard voices in the hall, and looked towards the door.  He recognized Bronn’s voice, but there was a woman’s, too. A moment later, he entered.  The woman on his arm was short, with the sun-bronze skin and black hair of the Dornish. It was long, tumbling in thick, looping curls to her waist.  She had full lips, and a pleasant voice that called to mind the way women spoke in dark corners of a brothel. That tone, he knew, was meant to separate you from your coin.  She had a familiar look about her, but he couldn’t place it, and her entry to the small council chamber was passing strange. On a second pass, Tyrion noticed the details - expensive, flowing silks, golden jewelry.  She was obviously well-fed, and her posture and carriage spoke of money and nobility. She turned to him when they entered, fresh from laughing at something Bronn said, and for a second Tyrion caught a calculating glint to her eye.  

“And who have you brought to visit us today, Bronn?,” he asked.  

“This, lads and Brienne, is the lady Arienne Martell,” this surprised Tyrion.  Arienne was among the nobility presumed dead in the war. No one had seen her, or the surviving Sand Snakes, for months - maybe even longer.  If this was her, then Tyrion was about to have a very, very large problem in Dorne. 

“A pleasure to see that you are alive and well.  We’d thought you dead,” he replied, favoring her with a polite smile.  

“No, not dead.  Just busy elsewhere,” she gave Bronn an affectionate pat, and let go of his arm, “So, my lord hand, where shall I sit?” 

“I’m sorry?,” Tyrion blinked at her.  

“The Member for Dorne sits on the small council.  As you might remember, your father created the position during his tenure as hand.  My uncle Oberon was gracious enough to occupy it. And as I am the last trueborn heir of Doran, it falls to me to take on the responsibility of representing Dorne.  So where shall I sit?” 

Tyrion was taken aback.  She’d entered the city with no fanfare and no announcement, and now he saw that it was apurpose.  This was a political ambush, and he saw the implications immediately. If he acknowledged her, it was akin to de-legitimizing the current prince of Dorne.  If he did not, and refused Doran’s heir, he undermined the very structure of primogeniture. Her being a woman, in this case, made no difference. The Dornish didn’t rely only on the male line.  Women inherited the same as men. The Iron Islands and the North were also ruled by women, and so the rest of Westeros may soon follow the custom of including women in their lines. But then, by their laws - or what he knew of them, lacking a master of laws - Arienne  _ was _ the legitimate heir and ruler of Dorne.  The prince was not. To deny Doran’s heir would be to deny the right to rule for many of the nobility, and it would make them no friends.  He could eliminate the representative to Dorne as a position, but that, too, carried risk. Simply showing up and claiming her place left the throne with little recourse.  Tyrion gave her a small nod. 

“Here, my lady, across from Brienne,” he’d lost this round.  He knew it, she knew it, but at least she did not gloat, she simply took her seat, “I will, of course, require proof of your identity though,”  

“Oh, do you, my lord?,” she tilted her head, long locks swishing around her shoulders, “Are there many Dornish princesses showing up on your steps claiming to be Doran’s daughter? If so, show me to them so we may work out the truth of it.”  

Bronn smothered a snorted laugh and Tyrion glared at him.  Just what he needed, another smartass on his council. The gods kept finding new, creative ways to keep him humble, “No, of course not, but forgive me for my curiosity.  You were believed dead, and Dorne already has an occupant of Sunspear.” 

“Ah, yes, my fool of a cousin,” oh, the acid that dripped into her smile.  A reminder of the association between the Dornish and snakes. Poison, “He warms himself and plays in the water gardens at my expense, and that will be dealt with.  But my claim is stronger than his.” 

“Yes, if you are who you say you are.  You can see why we would need to be sure,” it had been some time since he’d been fooled by the smile of a pretty young woman, and it always had consequences.  He was determined to avoid being fooled by her smile. 

“Yes, yes,” she waved her hand dismissively, “I had hoped you would take me at my word, but I did bring proof with me.  A gift for king Bran. If you’ll allow the indulgence, I’d rather save it to present to him later.” 

“I don’t see why not.  If you aren’t what you say, then perhaps sitting through a meeting discussing the details of the kingdom will bore you into giving up the charade,” he signaled to one of the cup-bearers to bring some wine, and begun the meeting.  

 

***

Tyrion now sat at the right hand of the king, absent-mindedly watching the places at the table fill.  Bran, probably anticipating Arienne’s arrival, had arranged for a feast for dinner rather than his normal custom of a small, private meal in his room.  So they sat at the head of the table, the spaces and benches rapidly filling. And between the end of the small council meeting and now, he’d taken the time to read more about Dorne.  As it turned out, the gaps in his knowledge were legion. Dorne was a complicated web of alliances, families, and loyalties liberally spiced with their own brand of stubbornness. No one forgot how long it took to bring them into the seven kingdoms, and many were agitated by the attitude they’d espoused.  They made it seem as if they could leave the kingdoms as they pleased. Given Bran’s allowance of the North’s separation, they likely weren’t entirely wrong. Their loyalty seemed to be more to the Targaryens than the throne, and that was dangerous.  _ Dorne _ was dangerous.  

The seats were full.  Banners hung from the columns around the room; a vivid display of color and pride.  It wasn’t an overly large crowd, this wasn’t an official state dinner by any means, but many houses were represented.  Bronn sat under his banners - he’d changed them after taking Highgarden, instead of a black flaming arrow on a grey field, it was now a green flaming arrow on a white field.  He’d given himself a name, too - Blackwater. Bronn of the Blackwater became Bronn Blackwater. An ironic name, given Highgarden’s role as the kingdom’s bread basket. 

The Stark banner was there, too, hanging behind the king, but it was the only northern banner.  Tyrion chose not to display his banner. No one needed the reminder of the ruin the Lannisters brought, although they weren’t extinct.  Gendry was in the city for a time, and so the black stag on the gold field hung. He was here because he said Storm’s End was lonely, and he needed a wife.  Arya was clearly never coming back, so he came to court. The resurgence of shipping trade in the city meant that house Velaryon made themselves known at court with their silver seahorse on a turquoise field.  They looked too much like the Targaryens for Tyrion’s comfort, but they were passing useful when it came to ships. They’d been a major power on the water, once, and their heir was of an age to be fostered by one of the other houses.  The red horse of Bracken was there; Lollys Stokeworth had married Wyllis Bracken. After the war Jonos, the head of house Bracken, commanded Wyllis to stay at kings landing to help find husbands for Lord Bracken’s five daughters. That meant that elsewhere, the white tree and black ravens of House Blackwood flew on their red field.  There was nothing the Brackens had that the Blackwoods did not try to take or surpass. Bran was the embodiment of the old gods that house Blackwood still worshipped, and they were distant kin, so they came to court too. The Riverlands were a problem to be dealt with soon. Edmure Tully was a dense as a dragon’s skull, and he couldn’t be trusted to make good choices.  Some time during the war, old Walder’s newest wife, Kitty, had disappeared. No one knew if he’d gotten a child on her, or whether she was even alive. So the Twins sat empty and it needed an occupant. Edmure’s Frey girl had given birth recently, to a little boy, and that meant negotiation power for Edmure. The Twins were his by rights, but if it came to it, Edmure would never be able to stop the crown from gifting them to a new lord.  Besides, he had Riverrun. Both the Blackwoods and the Brackens had castles of their own, but they could see the power in owning the Twins. 

There were numerous other small houses present, too, but they paled beside the newest banners raised to the columns: the sun-and-spear of House Martell and the white crossed sword and comet on purple that belonged to house Dayne.  That was most curious to Tyrion. If the Daynes had chosen to support Arienne, then he supposed the rest of Dorne might as well. He didn’t know enough of the politics of Dorne to say, but House Dayne was a strong, old house. Darkstar had a reputation even this far north of his home.  It also went a long way towards confirming Arienne’s identity. So did the women Tyrion noticed sitting next to her. He surmised via his reading that the four of them were what remained of the Sand Snakes. He frowned to himself; shouldn’t there be five of them? 

Tyrion’s musings were interrupted by the ringing of the bell that called for silence.  Bran would say something, and then dinner would come. Tyrion’s stomach rumbled. He might not indulge in whores anymore, and wine was a hindrance to his responsibilities, but food hadn’t abandoned him.  Maybe climbing up and down those stairs all day wasn’t entirely a punishment. 

The crowd of people quieted, and Bran projected his flat voice into the room, “Thank you for coming to my home and supping with me this evening on such short notice.  As you all have no doubt surmised, we have welcomed another visitor to the Red Keep. Arienne Martell, daughter of Prince Doran Martell, has joined us. She will be assuming the responsibilities of the Member for Dorne on the small council.”  

That caused some titters to move through the audience.  Arienne stood, a winning smile on her face. She was still dressed in the custom of Dorne, but now her clothing was much more revealing.  Tyrion found himself distracted by how buxom she was, “Thank you, your grace. May I approach? I have brought you a gift from my cousins and I.”  

“You may,” Arienne stepped out from behind the table where she sat, into the center of the room.  A man followed her from the Daynes’ table. He was of middling height, thin but muscular. He had shoulder-length silver hair with a black streak through it, and the purple eyes that ran in house Dayne.  His face had a sharp look to it, with high cheekbones, a thin, hooked nose, and a strong jaw. He was handsome enough, but his eyes were hard and mean, and he offered none of the warmth Arienne did. Tyrion supposed this was likely Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar.  More danger from Dorne. He held a dark, purple velvet-covered box in his hands. It was a flat rectangle a few inches thick, and wide enough that Darkstar needed two hands to hold it. 

“This has been held in my family for generations now, and my father had me take it when I felt Sunspear before his death.  It has been precious to us, as it was precious to those who owned it before us. Now I return it home as a symbol of Dorne’s fealty to your grace’s new country,” she stepped to the side, and Darkstar stepped forward.  He held the box while she opened it, and when Tyrion saw the contents, he gasped with the rest of the assembled crowd. 

Inside, on a bed of blood-red satin, lay a wide, dark circle of metal.  Darkstar was standing fairly close, and even in the dimness of the firelight Tyrion could see the tell-tale ripples of valyrian steel.  Evenly spaced around the circlet were large, square-cut rubies, winking in the flickering light of the candles in the room. Tyrion swallowed, a lump of apprehension in his throat.  He was hungry no longer. But, perhaps there was another explanation. He did not bother to stop the next words from flying out of his mouth, “A reproduction, surely?” 

“It is not,” she said, gently lifting it from its place and bringing it closer, “It is the true crown of Aegon the Conqueror, lost by King Daeron during his attempted conquest of Dorne.  One of the three lost symbols of Targaryen rulership. I cannot give you Blackfyre, and I cannot give you Dark Sister, but I can give you this. It is a symbol of Dorne’s fealty to the six kingdoms.  That we freely join you, a conquered kingdom no longer, but a friend and equal.” 

“Thank you does not seem to be an adequate word to convey what this gesture means to us, but all the same, we thank you for returning this to its rightful place,” of course Bran’s voice retained its usually tonelessness, but Tyrion had long since grown used to it.  He motioned to Brienne, and she stepped down to collect the gift. Around him, nobles cheered. Arienne looked entirely too pleased with herself.  _ That one _ , he decided,  _ will warrant closer watching _ .  He was not ready for the game of thrones - and its inevitable bloodshed - to resume, but she was a player all the same.  


	10. Jon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has found Bloodraven's cave, and decides to go looking for answers. But the cave is deep and dark, and he is all but alone. Things wait for him in that grave-dark womb, and none of them are pleasant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so really I should have put this in the other Jon chapter, but it was getting long. So here you are. Chronologically this happens right after Jon's last chapter, but concurrently or before everything that comes after that first Jon chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy. <3 Also comments fuel me. =D

Jon looked at the opening in the mountain before him.  It was inky dark, with no light illuminating even an inch from the entryway.  It seemed to absorb the ambient early morning light. No wind came from the opening.  Behind him, the cairne he’d built over Hodor’s body was a grey hulk. In his hand was a thick branch with an oil-soaked length of cloth wound tightly around the top - a torch.  There was no reason to go in there, and yet...it drew him. The dark was a song, a sweet lover’s kiss, the comforting dark of the night. It was solitude and penance. Curiosity gnawed on him, and he knew there might be answers to some of his questions in there.  Hodor’s body meant that Bran had certainly been there, and maybe there was some way to return his brother. To let some of his brother’s light back into the three eyed raven. Certainly, he would be a better ruler if he regained some of his humanity, would he not? Jon paused in his brooding to look down at Ghost, standing silently next to him, staring at the door.  Ghost had fed last night; Jon could tell by the lingering bloody tang in his own mouth. The longer he was out here, the more connected he became to the direwolf. It no longer bothered him to admit what he was - a warg. But he still had yet to slip his skin while waking, there were only the wolf dreams. 

“What do you think?,” he asked aloud, turning his sullen stare to meet those red eyes, “Should we go in?” 

Ghost made no sound.  He never did. Sometimes, Jon thought on the noise he’d heard in the woods that day, the one that made him go back for Ghost, and wondered why he’d heard it.  Ghost was noiseless. The direwolf gave no indication of his thoughts, and Jon turned back to the ominous gaping wound in the mountain. In his gut, he knew he had to see what was down there.  He knew he had to had answers. And, in truth, there was little else for him to do with his time. So he gathered himself, and stepped forward, his hand on Longclaw’s worn-smooth pommel. The sword was a comfort, an old friend that had never failed him.  He entered, and Ghost silently stalked in beside him. The darkness swallowed them up. 

Inside, it was dark, but the opening in the mountain did not disappear.  He could still see outside when he turned and looked. A part of him that he hadn’t realized was tense unwound knowing that his path of egress wasn’t closed to him.  He turned back and started further down the tunnel. 

It was roughly carved out of the mountain, with rough, unpolished edges and deep gouge marks.  In some places there were chunks missing, as if the builders had needed to wrest every piece of rock from the grip of the mountain.  The floors were hard-packed earth. Once inside, he could feel the air moving through the coolness of the space, but the smell it brought was sour.  There was dirt, and earth, and coolness, yes - but there was burnt flesh and rot slathered on top of those comforting natural smells. Ghost’s nose twitched in seeming distaste, and Jon said, “I agree, it stinks down here.”  

Talking to Ghost was something Jon did when he needed comfort.  The wolf never answered, of course, but Jon thought he understood.  Their bond ran deep. Sometimes Ghost’s emotions came to him unbidden across it, and when they fought it was as one unit, like they knew each others’ moves and needs.  It was one of the few good things that had come of his time beyond the wall. With Ghost there, he felt less alone. The wolf’s instincts were good, too, and they’d saved Jon on more than one occasion.  So he made sure to pay extra attention when he was tense. Right now, Ghost seemed cautious, but not afraid. Not on alert. There was enough ambient light from the doorway behind that he didn’t light the torch yet.  Instead, he let his eyes adjust as they moved forward. 

They pressed deeper and here Jon found evidence of a battle.  There were scorch marks on the wall, and deep gouges that clearly didn’t have years’ of built-up patina in them.  They were new, covering the walls, ceiling, and floor. As they went deeper into the tunnel, Jon stopped to light the torch.  The door wasn’t visible anymore. The light revealed human-shaped lumps that he dared not look to close at. The only time he stopped was when Ghost did, watching as he walked over to a smaller lump and sniffed at it.  He scratched the ground, looking back at Jon. Jon joined him to see what it was looking at. 

It was clearly not anything humanoid.  In fact, as Jon looked closer, he realized he was seeing four legs, hips, a spine, and a charred skull with the wicked, sharp teeth of a carnivore.  A wolf, and he sighed aloud, “Summer.” 

Ghost lowered his head, and Jon’s gut twisted at the thought of the same thing happening to Ghost.  He’d lost so much, and he knew he wouldn’t survive the loss of the last friend he had in the world. He scratched the ruff of Ghost’s neck, comforting himself by burying his fingers in that thick fur.  He stood, “We’ll take him with us when we leave, and give him a proper grave outside. He was our brother; he deserves better than this.” 

They turned, going deeper into the cave.  It became more and more silent, the sounds of the world muffled by the tons of rock.  They started to see branches twisting in and out of the cave walls. Initially they seemed scorched by whatever had burned the hallway and the bodies behind him, but as they passed through the fire damage he noticed that they were white - weirwood white.  There were gouge marks in them, too, with red, oozing sap. Below these wounds the ground was dark with dried sap. As they progressed, there were more roots, more damage to them, more bloody sap dripping down the walls. Although Jon was used to weirwoods, in this context the resemblance to blood unnerved him.  

Eventually, the tunnel joined a much larger cave, and Jon could make out sunlight.  He went towards it, and found himself at the mouth of the cave. The scratch marks were here, too, and footprints were clear on the ground.  The cold, much sharper here due to the large opening of the cave, even preserved a few shards of ice. There was other evidence of people living there - racks of weapons, smashed pottery, furs, and bits of carved wood.  Snow had built up around the cave mouth, but it would likely be no large task for he and Ghost to dig a way out of the cave and leave. But Jon still hadn’t found the answers he needed, and he had the sense that he’d only begun to scratch the surface of the cave.  So he turned from the way out, looking to go deeper into the large cavern. 

There were bones, here, so many bones.  Bones of creatures he could identify and some that he couldn’t.  Huge, thick skulls that could only be giants, each one of them staring at him in silent judgement.   _ You killed us.  You killed the last of our kind _ .  He could not chase the image of Wun Wun from his mind.  Only regret and death walked with them down the halls. Once, people had lived here.  That much was clear. But now there were only the aching, rotting remnants of their once-vibrant lives.  Yet, he kept walking, kept going deeper into the caves. He had found no answers yet, nor had he found the end of the caves.  The weirwood roots were ever-present, although less damaged here. Down the caves went, deeper and deeper into mother earth. Away from the cold of the cave mouth it warmed some, as all caves did, and this made Jon think that the cave itself was natural - even if the contents were not.  

It took hours of walking, but he eventually found his way to an even larger cavern.  Stalactites dripped in long fingers from the ceiling, and their partner stalagmites reached skyward to meet them.  In some places they met, making trunks of bubbled stone, some as thick as the tall pines of the Haunted Forest that surrounded the cave.  An abyss yawned in front of him, his feeble torchlight not chasing back even a particle of its shadows. Yet, Jon could hear a river’s song bouncing off the walls of the abyss, and knew it wasn’t bottomless.  There was a natural bridge across the abyss, and Jon carefully made his way across it. 

On the other side there was what looked like a chair made from the twisting weirwood roots, and they wove in and out of the skeleton that was seated on the throne.  It was old, with scraps of rotting cloth clinging to it. The roots made their way through all the bones, including one of his eyes. Jon squinted in the flickering torch light, leaning closer.  There was damage to the skeleton, a large cut through the center of its body. The roots around it were cut, too, the sap oozing from those cuts. The image made Jon scowl in revulsion. 

He stepped back from the tree corpse and looked around.  There was a second, smaller throne next to the occupied one.  It sat empty, disheveled furs discarded on the seat and around the ground.  There were gouges in the ground next to it, different than the ones he’d seen.  They were long, even marks, parallel to each other, and they went in the direction of the bridge and the tunnel.  Like something was drug across the ground. Hadn’t Sansa said something about the Reed girl arriving with Bran, dragging him on a litter? Yes, this could be that.  Jon looked to Ghost. The direwolf was interested in the furs, sniffing them and moving them with his nose, pawing at them like he’d done with Summer’s remains. Jon wished he was asleep so he could skinchange and know what Ghost was smelling on those furs.  He wondered if he could try, just this once. His thoughts lingered there, but he still felt that cold spike of fear that haunted him every time he tried or thought about skinchanging. Something about leaving behind his own body felt deeply unsettling to him.  So he stayed inside himself, and set about exploring the rest of this larger cavern. 

There were tunnels upon tunnels, side caves, and pits in the floor.  Those, he discovered, often were climbable and led to the river below.  It ran clear and sweet, the water not making him sick, and it teemed with a blind, white fish that was easy to spot and catch in the torchlight.  He did not know how long he spent down there exploring those caverns. He slept when he was tired, ate when he was hungry, and had no sense of time passing on the surface.  Each day he went a little further than the last, but he always stayed within a few hours’ walk of the river. He found some mushrooms growing down here and learned that they were edible too.  It was too far down for Ghost to leave and hunt, so he caught extra fish so the big wolf wouldn’t go hungry. He made fires from the wood left behind by the cave’s previous occupants, and kept the fat from frying his fish as fuel for his torch.  He could leave when he wanted, but he still felt the call of something here. Something deeper, something he needed to discover. 

He could not guess how long he’d been searching when he came upon a room filled with weirwood thrones like the one in the largest cave.  This one also had occupants, but they were much more freshly dead than the one above, and bore no marks of violence. Instead, they were impossibly thin.  Their skin color was impossible to tell this far after death, but they were small and their clothing was made from bark and bits of leaves entwined with their hair.  Their hands had only four digits instead of five, and their shrunken skin showed black talon-like nails. THeir ears were large and a little pointed at the tips. 

“They’re so small,” Jon mumbled to himself, “Like...children.”  

As he said it, he realized that’s exactly what they were.  Children of the forest. Dead, but not long dead. The others had been real, and giants, and dragons, so why not children? Jon remembered the many tales of conflict with them.  Old Nan’s voice telling them stories about the ancient greenseers, about the wars between the First Men and the children. It was they that carved the faces in the weirwoods, not men.  Seeing them here unnerved him deeply. Too many legends were real. Too many of them were horrifying and terrible. The only lies in the songs were the ones of peace, comfort, and love.  The horrors, it seemed to him, were always the truth. 

Had he been someone else, someone who hadn’t seen the fight for the dawn, who hadn’t ridden a dragon, who wasn’t a warg, who hadn’t fought alongside a giant, he would have quailed then and gone back to the surface.  But he  _ had _ seen those things, and so he gathered himself and pressed deeper into this strange place.  It was a dichotomy: while unnerving and scary, the room also felt almost sacred, holy. It reminded him of the crypts beneath Winterfell, save the sense of otherness he’d always felt down there.  Distracting himself, he wondered if he’d still feel that way now, knowing he was a legitimate Stark and not a bastard. He’d likely never find out. He kept walking, and he checked all of the chairs as he passed them to ensure each was dead.  Ghost stayed a fair distance behind, but he followed. 

As his light flickered over the last chair he realized something about it was different.  As he got closer, his mind still hadn’t figured out what he was seeing. It was so completely other that it took time for him to figure it out.  There, seated in a chair like the rest, was a small person - five-fingered, so not a child of the forest. The person’s skin was blackened and split, badly burned, but no clear fluid or pus leaked from the wounds.  Red, sticky blood, no - sap, leaked from them instead. The smell of roast pig hung heavy in the air, making Jon’s stomach turn in revulsion. The figure wore no clothes, likely they’d been burned away. He leaned closer, seeing a strange anomaly on the neck.  A large cut, he realized, with tiny weirwood branches grew through the wound like stitches to hold it shut. There was another wounds, too, vicious knife wounds on the body that were all held together the same way, but none had healed. Red sap-blood oozed from the places where the branches pierced the body’s skin, and from the wounds themselves.  Some was dried black, which told Jon that whomever this was, they’d been here for some time. The queerest thing about the body was that the skin didn’t seem to be rotted, it still seemed pliant. Well, as pliant was skin could be with burns this bad. Bone showed through in places, bright against the red and black of the corpse. It was disgusting, and yet Jon couldn’t turn away.  The wrongness of it drew him in. 

Fast, too fast for him to move, he felt something clamp tight around his wrist.  He looked down, shouting as he realized that the corpse was holding him tight. He tried to yank his hand back, but those small fingers might as well have been stone.  All around him, the other corpses erupted in sound. A loud, singing wail bounced and echoed off the walls of the cavern, assaulting his ears. Even Ghost, ever silent, joined in wailing.  Jon’s mind slipped straight to panic, and the only word in his mind was  _ undead _ .  A quick glance around showed him open eyes, burning ember and orange, coals in the dark cave.  No blue, just bright orange, even those out of range of his torch. He desperately tried to reign himself in, to control his panic.  

_ Not blue.   _

_ They’re not blue.   _

It didn’t matter how many times he said it to himself, they were dead before and now they were not.  He was back there on that night, during the desperate fight for Winterfell. The smell of rot and hoarfrost, the chemical smell of dragonflame during those awful moments in the courtyard, facing death.  Yes, he was going to die, he was going to die this night here in his former home. He faced the monster, the white dragon reborn, looming above him. His bowls were water, his heart pounding, and he desperately thrashed.  He couldn’t move, couldn’t dodge, couldn’t get away. The night seemed dark and unending and his senses were failing him. He could not see anything beyond the looming dragon. 

Then a soft, feminine voice.   _ A dragon is not a slave, Jon Snow.  Dracarys.  _

He expected to die, expected to finally let the woman he loved have her revenge for his betrayed.  He would gladly walk into dragonflame, even now, even if it wouldn’t undo anything he’d done. He’d let the flame become like his guilt, and consume him.   _ I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ .  

And then, suddenly, he was someplace else.  Pale winter sunlight revealed a courtyard. Castle Black, he realized, but the normal sights and sounds were missing.  There were no men out practicing in the yard. No metal being forged by the blacksmith. No dogs barking, no men shouting.  No one milling about. There was no one, except the small boy standing in front of him. The boy was thin and short, but not so young as his height suggested, simply small.  He had messy, light-brown hair and moss green eyes. He looked familiar, as if Jon passed him in a crowd once and had quickly forgotten him. His expression looked slightly amused, as if Jon’s terror was funny.  

“Have you never warged before, Jon Snow?,” the boy leaned closer, looking confused for a moment, and then he frowned, “No, wait.  Not Jon Snow. Aegon Targaryen.” 

Jon managed to find his voice, “Jon.  Jon is all I need.” 

The boy nodded, “Jon, then.  Why are you in my cave, Jon?”  

Jon was too distracted to answer, two steps behind the boy in the conversation, “Warged?” 

“Of course.  Into the weirwood,” Jon knew his face was nothing but a blank, confused look as he listened, “All magic demands a price in blood, and you have paid it, over and over.  You have soaked the roots of the weirwoods, prince, and they favor you.” 

“With whose blood?” 

“All of the men you’ve sent to die.  And the women. And the dragon,” the boy frowned.  

“Who are you?,” Jon asked, trying to get some handle on what he was seeing.  

“I have a name no longer.  I cannot remember it. But I think I was a frog, once.  I’m not sure. The singers sing, and they call me by no name,” he looked up, intensity shading the moss green of his eyes, “Why have you come here, Jon Snow?” 

“I...,” Jon hesitated.  He really wasn’t exactly sure why.  He’d just felt drawn here. So he explained as best he could, “I think I’m looking for answers.” 

“For answers there must be questions.” 

“About Bran,” for a moment, the boy’s face was a complicated mixture of pain and sadness.  

“The three-eyed raven,” the boy replied.  

“Yes.  How did he become what he is?” 

“He ate the blood of others, and the other raven taught him to fly.  I will show you,” the scene flickered around them, and Jon was standing back in the cave, near the throne with the damaged skeleton.  Only now, it contained a living man. He was unfathomably old, his skin as thin and brittle as parchment. His hair was bleached-bone white, reaching to the floor, and one red eye looked out of the withered face.  Branches dove in and out of the man’s body, much as Jon had seen them above, but the body was alive. One larger one wove itself through the socket of the man’s eye. A winestain mark marred the right half of his face.  Next to him, in the smaller throne, sat Bran. Not Bran now, no, not the cold shell his brother had become, but the stubborn boy he had been. He looked so young, so vulnerable, especially among the scattered bones on the floor of the cave.  Ravens fluttered about, and there was a small woman nearby. A child of the forest, Jon realized. 

“Yes, but  _ why _ ?,” Bran was saying to the man.  

“I’ve told you before, Brandon,” his voice was whispered and quiet, as if worn from too many years of use.  Even so, Jon could hear the edge of annoyance in it, “I do not possess the magic necessary to repair your broken legs.” 

“What about the children? What about you?,” he addressed the small, brown woman covered in leaves and vines.  She cocked her head, blinking orange eyes. They had strange, slitted pupils, Jon noticed. 

“You are a greedy boy, Brandon Stark.  The Last Greenseer has told you that you will fly.  Why would you want to walk, when you could fly?” 

“ _ I _ can’t fly, the  _ birds _ fly.  I only borrow them when they go flying.  Fix my legs!,” Jon had forgotten that about Bran, how demanding he could be.  A little lord. Bran seemed to remember himself, “Please, Leaf. Can you fixed me?” 

Her body language was more viper than human, and if she had an emotion about the request, Jon could not see what it was just by watching her, “No.  Maybe once, but then you cut down all of our eyes, and stole our magic.” 

A snarl of words.  Bran shrank back from her, clearly surprised by the venom in her tone.  The tree-man continued, “They have good reason to be angry at men. When I came here, one of my brothers was gravely injured.  I was the one they needed, and they would not help him, only me. Leaf and the singers are small, but they are not children. They remember what men did to them.”  

Jon was surprised by how sad the man sounded, and he turned to his guide, “He sounds...alive.”  

“He was.”  

“Bran he can’t...there’s no emotion in him.  He is not sad, he is not empathetic. That man was a three-eyed raven?” 

“Yes,” the boy also nodded to confirm his words, “Brynden Rivers was his name.  Like me and the singers, he lived long after when he should have died.” 

“And leaf?” 

“She died when they came to the cave.”  

“Who?” 

The boy looked at him, checking to see if Jon was being purposely ignorant, “You know who came here.  These questions are for your own curiosity, and I do not know how much time we will have together. Ask better questions.”  

On thinking about it, Jon did know, so he nodded, “This three eyed raven, he...he seemed to have emotion.  He sounded annoyed, and then sad. Bran, he doesn’t do that. He never has emotion.” 

“Yes,” the frog-boy agreed, nodding, “It is strange.”  

“How did that happen?” 

“That, Jon Targaryen, is a much better question.”  

“And the answer?” 

“I don’t know.  I have the sight, but I cannot see all things.  I can’t see what happened to Bran, but--,” the boy cut off, his head whipping to the side, “You must go!” 

“What? Why?,” Jon scowled, not ready to leave.  But then he heard it. The whispered cracking of ice that haunted his dreams of late.  Hoarfrost grew to coat the edges of the vision, creeping over root, and rock, and bone.  His breath fogged before him, and an all-too-familiar dread curled deep in his guts. 

“You hear him.  You must go!,” the frog boy repeated, and Jon nodded, “Never return to this place.  Learn to use your gifts.” 

That was it, the last words given to him by the boy.  He blinked and stumbled backwards, back in the cave with the bodies.  The body released him, its dead fingers curled in the shape where his wrist once was.  The singers were quiet once more, and Ghost was again mute. The cave felt colder and more ominous, and less like he should be here.  He’d found what he’d come looking for, and so he collected his belongings and his wolf, and started the long trip back to the exit. 


	11. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa receives some very strange visitors. One brings help and the other brings pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so the previous Jon chapter was somewhat out of place in the timeline (sorry about that). Several weeks have passed between the end of it and the beginning of this one. 
> 
> This one was fun for me. I get to make use of a character I've always been curious about, and because there's almost no lore about her personality and life, I got to shape those things too. I don't know that this is what GRRM would choose for her, but it fits very well into my planned plotline. If you're wondering whether or not I just pulled her placement out of thin air - I did not, it's a well-supported fan theory that can be credited to MaidenWarrior on the ASOIAF forums. Also, the oath of the crannogmen was copied word-for-word from the books, so credit to GRRM for that.

A fire crackled on the hearth behind her in the common room. Nymeria, well-fed on the scraps from breakfast and lunch, slept near the fire, her belly towards the warmth. She’d become spoiled since arriving in winterfell.  And, although she had the freedom to come and go, she often stayed where there was warmth and easy food. Her pack still roamed the woods, and she joined them sometimes, returning home with bloody jaws. Luckily, the wolfswood was so large that the pack could largely avoid the humans and the humans could avoid it. Game was becoming scarce, though, and there seemed to be fewer voices out there at night. Her people were becoming thinner, and there were many times when she wished for help and missed her family. Though it hadn’t gotten so bad that the old men offered to “go hunting” during a storm. Yet, anyway. 

People surrounded her in the hall, councilors and cup bearers and stewards. There were more who’d come and gone.  It was mid-winter, and the time when Sansa was hearing petitions and meeting with her lords. It was going about as well as could be expected.  White Harbor wanted to impose new levies on food imports. Ostensibly, this was because they needed the money to maintain the ice-breaker ships that kept the harbor clear, but Sansa knew it was also a test.  She’d allowed the levies, but at half the amount they’d requested. Enough to maintain their fleet but not enough to squeeze the people too hard. She’d started making plants for the spring thaw, primarily to allow for the creation and repair of the roads.  Now that the Iron Throne wasn’t going to maintain the Kingsroad above the neck, she needed to figure out what was involved in doing that. It was vital those kinds of civil works projects be started as soon as could be managed. It would be easier to try and establish safer routes to and from various places in the vast north during the winter if the roads were in good condition during the summer.  

A raven had come today, too.  Though the Greatjon, Smalljon, and little lord Ned had all died, some Umbers had been found.  The Greatjon had three other children - one son and two daughters, and one of his daughters had survived.  And while Whoresbane and Mors had both fallen to the Night King, Mors had children who lived. A son and a daughter who had been sent to foster in houses further to the south that hadn’t been touched by the War for the Dawn.  Greatjon’s daughter had the better claim, but Sansa knew that old attitudes died hard, especially in the north. Just because they’d accepted her as queen, does not mean they’d accept a woman among them as a lord. Perhaps, though, if the right match was made.  Breach would have to be accounted for as well. She was pleased that the town had sprung up among the ruins of the wall, but it was close to the lands of the Umbers and had been raiding the empty keep for materials. The Umbers were notoriously prickly when it came to the Wildlings, and after the events in the last few wars their houses weren’t fast friends.  If she installed the Greatjon’s daughter at Last Hearth, who is to say that the poor girl’s cousins wouldn’t march on the castle and take it out from under her? Then she’d have a conflict between the Umbers and Breach on her hands and she did not like the thought of that. No, she’d much rather have peace in her lands. 

_ I must meet the girl and take her measure _ , Sansa thought to herself,  _ I must meet all three Umbers.  I do not wish for the seat to pass to one simply because they are next in line.  I want power to transfer to those who are most capable of skillfully wielding it - man or woman, it makes no matter. _

The Bolton lands were another matter entirely.  Not a scrap of Bolton blood was left, not even a bastard to legitimize, and the Dreadfort sat empty.  Sansa wasn’t too distraught about that. Aside from the hatred she bore for that family, a lack of heir meant that the Bolton lands were hers now.  She could keep them, or give them away. She had no real desire to manage the vast tracts of land that had once belonged to Roose, so she would give them to someone else.  A gift, perhaps, for service. Or when spring came, maybe chunks could be cut out of it. New houses created and given to those who would make good stewards of the land. Only to those who were loyal, though.  The Dreadfort was far too close to Winterfell to give to someone who couldn’t be trusted. Perhaps one of the Hornwoods. Their lands adjoined, and after Ramsay’s treatment of their lady, well...the thought made Sansa smile.  A final  _ fuck you _ to the bastard of the Dreadfort.  Yes, that may indeed be a good solution to that problem.  

A knock on the large double doors at the end of the hall turned Sansa’s attention from the matters of her kingdom and do the sound.  She nodded to the guards by the door, and they pulled open the heavy wooden barriers. Three figures entered. All were short, but one was shorter than the other two, almost the size of an older child.  As the doors closed again and blocked out the sunlight behind them, Sansa could make out at least one of their faces, and she smiled, “Meera, welcome.” 

She didn’t know the girl well, but she did know that if not for her Bran would be dead.  That was enough for Sansa to consider her a friend. When she’d visited Winterfell the first time she’d been a cheerful, kind girl.  When she returned with Bran she’d become solemn and serious, so Sansa’s smile was not returned. Instead, Meera and her companions came to stand in front of Sansa’s table, and bowed, “Your grace.”  

“I am happy to see that you survived your trip south.  Who is your companion?,” Sansa asked. He was small, and of average build.  His blonde hair was stick-straight, shaggy, and liberally peppered with grey.  He was growing a winter beard, also blonde and grey. His forest green eyes were deep set, with laugh lines carved into his face along their edges.  He had a long nose and a small mouth, but it looked like he smiled often. He looked kind. 

“I am Howland, your grace.  Meera’s father, and--,” He’d spoken over Meera, and that grated on Sansa’s nerves.  He  _ was _ her father’s close friend, though, and that meant another potential ally.  

“And fast friend of my father’s,” Sansa answered.  While she knew the Reeds had always been loyal, they were nowhere to be found during the Battle for the Dawn.  So she would give Howland a chance to earn her trust on his own, although Nymeria’s lack of response to the Reeds spoke well of them.  Sansa turned her attention to the third person. A woman, taller than Howland and Meera, with long, dark hair. A curious streak of grey in it, likely due to age, wove in and out of the braid it was twisted into.  She was a lovely woman, even at her age, with few wrinkles adorning her porcelain-fine skin, and thick lashes around her eyes. Eyes, Sansa realized with a start, that were a curious, engaging shade of violet, “Welcome to my hall.  Is this your lady wife?” 

“Yes,” Howland answered.  He turned to her and smile, his expression going soft around the edges.  Even in that brief glimpse Sansa could tell that this was a love match, not an arranged marriage.  She took that fact and filed it away in her mind, wondering if there was some way it could help her when it came to installing rulers into the vacant castles and keeps.  Howland gestured with his hand, “May I present the lady Jyana Reed.” 

Jyana inclined her head to Sansa and smiled.  There was something so graceful about her, something Sansa would not have expected from a Crannogman.  And her height - she was easily several inches taller than her husband. Why was she so tall?  _ Questions for another time _ , she thought, “I am glad you have come so far.” 

“We’ve come to swear fealty to you, your grace,” Howland answered, “It took a little longer than the others, but we had further to go.  To Winterfell we again swear the faith of Greywater. Hearth and heart and harvest we yield up to you, my lady. Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command.  Grant mercy to our weak, help to our helpless, and justice to all, and we shall never fail you,” he knelt, along with his wife and Meera, and they spoke as one, “We swear it by earth and water, we swear it by bronze and iron, we swear it by ice and fire.”  

Ice and fire, indeed.  The dragon queen and Jon flashed through Sansa’s mind, and she remembered that Howland had been at the Tower of Joy.  She didn’t know the whole story, but she knew that he’d saved her father’s life. And if Howland had been at the tower, then he’d known about Jon all along.  The pain that could have been saved with that knowledge, well, the thought overwhelmed her. Jon clearly hadn’t been able to stomach bedding his aunt, and if he’d known before falling in love with her, it likely never would have happened at all.  If Jon had never given up the north to the dragon queen. If she’d gone south to King’s Landing, first, and had three dragons rather than one, and a huge host. How fast the city fell with only one dragon; perhaps it would have been yielded even faster with three.  Perhaps Jon never would have gone north, and never would have needed rescue, and Viserion would never have fallen into the Night King’s hands. The wall never would have fallen. So many who would be alive. Sansa’s initial small flame of warmth towards them guttered out, and she stood, her chair scraping against the stone floor.  It was loud and jarring in the quiet of the room. She walked around the table to the trio kneeling in front of her. 

“I think you have not come here for loyalty, my lord.  I think you have come here for absolution,” Sansa watched them carefully.  Meera looked confused, and Jayana’s face betrayed no emotion at all. Only Howland reacted, his eyes closing briefly, the sadness evident on his face, “Where were you? When the information you carried could have stopped the war? Where were you men when we faced the Night King?” 

“I cowered in my swamp,” he said, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible.  The statement drew a reaction from Jyana. Anger flickered across the mask of her features.  The anger of an old argument, of a path well-tread.  _ Well, that is interesting, indeed _ , Sansa thought to herself.  

“Why? When we needed you so much, why?,” she asked, letting some feigned desperation and sadness into her voice.  She was angry, not sad, but he might be more easily guided by sadness. Let them think her soft. 

“To protect my family.”  

“Yet you sent Meera and Jojen to us long ago, and lost Jojen in the process.  Those do not seem the actions of a man so afraid to risk his family.” 

“We went without his permission.” Meera interjected, “Jojen had the green dreams, we knew we had to go.  He was going to come alone, but I...I wouldn’t let him. It was too dangerous, and I knew what he’d drempt.”  

This made Sansa view Meera with a new light.  She admired bravery and fortitude and the backbone to do the right thing.  She saw a little of herself in the other girl, and she decided that even if Howland was a coward, he wasn’t a traitor, “Rise, lord and ladies Reed.  Winterfell accepts your oath. You will stay here in the castle, and I will give you the chance to earn my trust.” 

The three of them stood and Jyana dipped her head in respect.  There was something familiar about that woman, something that tickled an old, half-forgotten story in the back of Sansa’s mind.  She’d have to think on it. Jyana turned those violet eyes on Sansa and said, “Thank you, your grace.” 

Sansa nodded and turned to the steward, “Find rooms for the Reeds.  Good ones with plenty of space. They’ll be here for a time.” 

“Also, lady Stark,” Jyana said, “We have brought gifts with us.” 

“Oh?” 

“Food, your grace.  Wagon loads of it. It may not be the fare you’re used to, but we felt that it might go a ways towards easing the tax of our household on your winter stores.  We have no maester, but we have a grower for the winter months. We have brought him with us so that he can teach your household some of the ways we use to grow food in the winter.  Some of our hunting techniques, too.” 

“I am very grateful to you.  I thought that the Crannogmen had a difficult time finding food in the swamps?” 

A small half-smile graced the corner of Howland’s mouth, and he answered, “That is one of many falsehoods we allow to circulate to protect ourselves.” 

“Why have you decided to tell me the truth?” 

He shrugged and said simply, “It was time.”  

 

***

 

Later that night, Sansa sat in her study.  She was finished sorting through what, exactly, the Reeds had brought with them.  It was a large, and much appreciated, infusion of food into her stores. It went a little ways towards soothing the hurt of Howland’s negligence during the war for the dawn.  And their grower had ensconced himself with the maester Sam sent up from the south. Though no longer part of the seven kingdoms, Sansa had no wish to alienate her powerful neighbor, and so did not sever ties with them altogether.  It would only be beneficial to her people if trade and communication remained easy between the two countries, so she allowed passage through the border she’d established in the neck. 

A knock on the door told her that the person she’d sent for was on the other side of it.  She looked up from her work and said, “Enter!” 

Her guard opened the door, and in strode the lady Jyana Reed.  The older woman approached Sansa’s desk and bowed, “Good evening, your grace.”  

“Good evening.  Please, sit,” she gestured to one of the chairs in front of her.  She sent one of the servants to get fresh tea for her guest, “I apologize for the late hour.  I find myself up longer these days.” 

“Running a kingdom is hard work,” a half smile, a flicker of knowing humor.  The tea arrived and they were both quiet while it was poured. Then Sansa dismissed all of the servants and guards from the room.  She wished to be alone with the lady Reed. 

When they were gone, Sansa cut straight to the point of summoning the other woman.  There was no need to dissemble, here, she needed the truth, “I know who you are.” 

This time, Jyana’s smile was wide and genuine, “I would have been so disappointed if you hadn’t figured it out.”  

“‘The beautiful maid with the haunting violet eyes’,” she quoted.  She knew the story her father told her, the story he’d allowed to be spread for years.  The tragedy of Ashara Dayne, who threw herself from a tower when she found her brother had died, “Shall I continue referring to you as Jyana, or do you prefer Ashara?”

“It’s been so long since anyone called me Ashara, I doubt I’d even know to answer to it,” she leaned back and took a sip of her tea, “You’d like the whole story, I suppose?” 

“I’d like the truth of it,” Sansa replied.  

“After the rebellion, and after the Tower of Joy, your father showed up in Starfall with three things: a man, a sword, and a baby.  The man was Howland, whom I’d met at the tourney,” no need to explain which one. The tourney at Harrenhal was infamous, “After your aunt stood up for him, of course.  And we, well, we connected. So I was happy to see him again when he showed up with your father - his liege lord.” 

“The convenience of it boggles the mind,” Sansa added, one corner of her mouth turning up.  

“Doesn’t it just? The one person who could grant us permission to marry.  My father was dead, and so was my brother. My sister yet lives, but she doesn’t know that I did not throw myself from a tower,” she rolled her eyes, and Sansa immediately liked her better, “As if I’d be so weak.  I’d never fainted once in my life to that point, and I’d endured the unwelcome attentions of near every man at court by then.” 

This made Sansa laugh aloud.  She could not remember the last time she laughed, “Ah, you poor shrinking violet.”  

“Men always underestimate beautiful women,” a flash of understanding passed between them, and Ashara continued, “The sword was Dawn, the white blade of our family.  It had belonged to my brother, who was the Sword of the Morning. Many people don’t know this, but when we were younger, my father allowed me to train with Arthur. He felt it was a passing interest, and we are Dornish, so he allowed me to add those skills to my arsenal as long as my others weren’t neglected.  As it turns out, I was almost as skilled as my brother. We trained together every day until he left for the Kingsguard, and I’ve never let my practice of swordplay dull. So your father brought Dawn home and I took it for my own. I would have taken the title for myself, too, but...” 

“Naming a woman the Star of the Morning is a step too far for even the Dornish,” Sansa understood.  She’d seen how they reacted to Arya, and Arya was just a young girl when she’d begun learning to use a sword.  Ashara was widely considered the most beautiful girl in the realm at the time, and none would have let a prize like that be wasted on swordplay.  

“Exactly.  I kept the sword though, and there is no one in my homeland who would be able to best me even now.  So you father brought me a husband and a weapon...and the most dangerous child in the whole realm.” 

“Jon,” Sansa breathed his name.  

“Aegon.  Howland, Ned, and I were the only three who knew.  There was a wet nurse - Wylla - but she thought that he was a bastard fathered during the war.  We never spoke of his true parentage, but we all knew. So the three of us decided that Ned would keep the secret, and not allow Robert to murder the child.” 

“I’ve been told of his hatred of Targaryens,” Sansa said.  

“And the way he believed he loved Lyanna.  To him, Jon would have been blasphemy. The highest kind of sin.  Lyanna explained that she and Rhaegar married, that Jon was now the legitimate heir to the Iron Throne - Rhaegar’s only surviving sun.  He had a better claim than the brother, Viserys.” 

“Or the sister,” Sansa muttered.  Thinking about Daenerys still made her feel angry and bitter.  

“Yes,” Ashara nodded, “Marrying Howland was an easy choice.  We were in love, and no one would be able to follow me into Greywatch.  It took me from court, too, from people who would ask far too many questions.  Howland and Ned were both loathe to subject me to that, and to risk my life. Should the information about Aegon come out, I would be hostage to the Iron Throne.”  

“Yes.  I can see the risk.  I’ve...spent time there.  It’s a scorpion pit.” 

“It always has been.  Too many people too close to power and too idle.” 

Sansa grinned, “Perhaps they should all take up swordplay.” 

Ashara laughed, her violet eyes sparkling, “Well, it certainly would make life more interesting.  We deemed court not worth the risk. The decision was easier than faking my death, but we still did both things.  We considered taking Aegon with us into the swamp - if he turned out to have the silver hair and purple eyes of the Targaryens, it could be explained by my own ancestry.  But Ned lingered long enough at Starfall that Aegon’s peach-fuzz baby hair started to fall out and his real hair started to come in. It was dark, almost black. His eyes turned from the blue of all children into the dark grey of the starks.  He looked like one of them, and so Ned took him home. The rest, you know.” 

It was so much information to turn over in her mind, and she’d just begun to digest it when there was a knock on the door.  Sansa’s head snapped up and she frowned. Ashara whipped towards the door, hand going for a sword that wasn’t currently at her belt.  They exchanged a look, an understanding that flows between many women who clawed some amount of happiness from the world of men. Women like her and Ashara, they would defend that happiness to their deaths.  No one should be knocking on her door at this hour. Sansa let the mantle of queen cover the woman who had just been hearing a story about her father, and said, “Come in.” 

The door opened and Sansa caught a glimpse of white fur and red eyes, and she relaxed, knowing who it was.  Jon entered with Ghost, his face set in the same grim, brooding expression he wore almost all of the time. He was thinner than when she saw him last, and still covered in the black of the night’s watch.  His hair and beard hadn’t been cut in an age, but then, Jon had never been very good at that. Part of her was glad to see him, her friend, her cousin, her adopted brother. The other knew he wouldn’t be here without reason.  Last she heard he’d been roaming north of the wall, likely stewing in his own guilt, and ranging for the Watch. 

“Speak of the devil,” she said to him, by way of greeting.  A smile flickered briefly across his face, as if he was glad to see her but couldn’t say it through whatever it was that cast a shadow on his thoughts.  

“Hello, Sansa,” he sounded as she remembered.  His high born accent was tinged with the sounds of the low born of the north from the men he’d grown up around.  Being in the Night’s Watch only strengthened those tones, “Sorry to disturb you so late.” 

She waved her hand dismissively, “You are my brother.  It’s not a trial. I was awake anyway. This is the lady Ashara Dayne.  She has taken a new name and married Howland Reed, so she is now the lady Jyana Reed.  Lady Reed, this is my brother, Jon Snow.” 

Jon sketched a bow in her direction, and her voice was a barely a breath when she said, “Aegon.  I have not seen you since you were a baby.” 

He frowned and looked at Sansa in question.  Sansa nodded, “Well, pleasure to re-make your acquaintance, then.”  

“Now that we are all introduced, I imagine you’re not here just to visit me,” Sansa said to him.  

“Sadly, no.  I’ve come to warn you.  There is something wrong, there is danger.”  

She sighed heavily, “Jon.  Just once, could you bring me good news?” 

 


	12. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did not forget about our favorite exploring Stark! While her family comes together in the north to discuss what Jon as seen, Arya's ship is adrift far to the southwest. What has she found on the Sunset sea? And what happens when she dreams?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ha! My first fully-fleshed OC is in this chapter. I had to, because there was no one other than Arya on that ship whose name we knew. I luff him, I want to be his friend. I hope you like him too. <3 And listen, as much as I didn't hate the ending for Arya, I have no desire to make up the entirety of the western hemisphere of Planatos based on the slivers of info given by things like Alyssa Farman. But I am interested in seeing how Arya's character would change when she was in a place she felt safe, making choices for herself. Would more of her silly, teasing sense of humor come out? What if she was around the right people? If she'd ever had the chance to choose, I wanted to explore what kind of people she'd choose for herself.

“Come to!,” She yelled.  Salt wind blew, and the sun-faded direwolf sails flapped overhead as the crew furled them.  Ropes creaked and water splashed against the bow of the  _ Stormlord _ as it cut through the water, slowing after her command.   _ You’re too sentimental _ , her first mate had said when she’d explained what the ship’s name meant,  _ Will you name your next one after me if I fuck you right? _ , he’d teased.   _ If you’re better in bed than him, I might name two ships after you _ , she’d thrown back at him, laughing.  Imari was a huge Summer Islander only a few years older than her, but with a lifetime of experience on the sea.  She’d met him when they’d stopped in Tyrosh for provisions. She’d given the crew a few days’ shore leave before heading through the Stepstones, and she had gone to a tavern with several of them.  They’d all gotten into a fight with a group of Tyroshi pirates, and the only two left standing were her and Imari. He’d bought her a drink, and since then they’d been fast friends. He was the only one she’d met along the journey who had seemed as enthusiastic as she was about exploring westward.  

It was hot, so hot.  How was it so hot even in winter? She’d taken to wearing only her breeches and a thin linen shirt, having ditched her heavy winter furs and leathers as soon as the air started to warm.  King’s Landing was on the eastern side of Westeros, and it had taken weeks of sailing just to get around the arm of Dorne and head west to the Sunset Sea. Their last port of call was Old Town, where they loaded the ship up with food and other provisions.  Then they struck out west. After two weeks, a storm had blown them off course, and they still hadn’t recovered. They were too far south, stuck in a trade wind. The fresh food ran out quickly, but she’d made sure to bring plenty of dried meat. They caught fish every day to eat, and conserved the dried fruit Arya had been wise to pack into the holds.  Instead of eating it directly, it was used in the cooking and it went further. Water was still a problem though, and they were running low. It wasn’t to the point of crisis yet because they’d conserved, but soon it would be a problem. They didn’t have enough to get back to any known land, though, so she pressed forward. 

“You’ve got that look on your face again,” she turned her head towards the voice.  Imari was ascending the steps to the helm. Where she wilted in the heat, he thrived.  His dark skin became even darker, until it was the color of moist, rich, newly-turned earth.  Until he disappeared against the dark of night, becoming a shadow with stars for eyes. For his eyes were light in color - some quirk of his ancestry had made them spring green.  He ate like a horse, but once they’d gotten out to sea, the activity had melted all the fat from his muscles and left behind a body perfectly honed for his work. He prowled the deck, never seeming to tire, wearing only his boots and breeches, his bald head always crowned in the sweat of a hard day of work.  

“Which look?,” she asked, turning back to her perusal of the horizon.  It was nearly dark, and the crew was beginning to settle for the night.  She stayed near the helm, though, liking to watch as the stars came out. 

“The one that tells me you’ve been thinking to hard again.”  

“Better than not thinking hard enough,” a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.  

“Did someone teach you to brood like that?” 

“My older brother,” no need to mention that Jon was her cousin.  She still thought of him as her brother, and always would.

“He must have been an adept teacher,” he came to a stop next to her, following her gaze out to the open ocean, “What has been troubling you this time?”

“The water.”  

“I see.  We could find land you know.  Some of the men have claimed that they saw gulls.” 

“They could just be hallucinating, too.”  

“But there could be land.”  

Arya shrugged, “We’ll see.  Are you staying out tonight?” 

He nodded, “It’s my turn.  You should sleep, your sparring session is early tomorrow.”  

“Everything is always early on this ship,” Sometimes, she missed the dark.  It was comforting to her, now, after Braavos. The nights were long in the north, and dark reminded her of home.  When it was dark, it was easier to find the god of death. She wondered, not for the first time, if they could become a ship that sailed at night and rested in the day.  Everytime she brought it up, Imari found a way to dissuade her. It was hard enough, he said, to keep the crew calm on such a voyage as this. It would not become an easier task if they were kept awake all night.  The sky was almost black, now. A shade of dark purple dotted with a few twinkling white lights. A break from the heat, too. 

He looked at her, noticing how distracted she was, “Go, eat the dinner that’s in your cabin.  Sleep. Do whatever it is you do in there when no one is around.” 

Her eyes flicked up at him, “I know what you’re implying.” 

A quick, easy grin, “Do you now?” 

“I do,” she replied, turning to leave before he could think of an answering jab.  She’d never really responded to his lewd jokes or flirting, not seriously, but sometimes it was difficult.  Her first impulse was to banter with him, to use her words like she used her blade. She enjoyed it. But flirting wasn’t something she excelled at and she didn’t want him to take her seriously.  

Although she didn’t precisely want him to  _ not _ take her seriously, either.  

Her boots clumped against the steps as she skipped down them.  She said goodnight to any that crossed her path, and retreated into the calm dimness of her quarters.  As was her custom, the windows were open. She didn’t light candles in here, instead preferring to see only by what light came through the open windows.  Only on the darkest of nights did she conceded and light a candle. 

She insisted on eating exactly as the crew did, and waiting for her was a bowl of stew, some bread, and some cheese.  She sat and tucked in, the flavors bursting across her tongue as she shoveled stew into her face. She could taste so many things in there, even the dried fruit that her talented cook managed to work into every recipe.  It never seemed out of place in the dish, and thus far none of her men had gotten scurvy. But she was terrible at stopping to appreciate the taste. She’d picked up the habit of eating quickly while travelling with Sandor, and never quite changed.  

Today had been especially busy and worrying, so after she finished her attempts to sort through some paperwork were stymied by her drooping head.  Putting the papers aside, she pulled her clothes off and flopped down on the bed face-first. It was too hot for clothes or covers. Too hot to even move.  She closed her eyes and listened to the waves and let the ocean rock her to sleep. 

What was that smell? She blinked, looking around.  Snow? Why was there snow under her...paw? She scratched at the ground a little, inhaling the air.  Home. It smelled like home. The cold was so comforting after the stifling, wet heat of the ocean.  She hopped around, kicking up snow, her heart singing. Home! Cold! Snow! She stopped, looking around.  Nearby, the high walls of Winterfell curved away from her. There were homes around, people milling. Some of them were staring at her now, so she started trotting away from them.  She knew where she was - the winter village, outside her gates. She loped through the open gate, the guard barely sparing her a glance. She wondered at that. Why where they unafraid? 

Other scents caught her attention.  Criss-crossing humans, so many that she didn’t know.  Strange foods that smelled like brine. But there, under it all, weaving through the tapestry, was the smell of her sister.  And, she realized with surprise, her brothers. The human brother and the wolf brother. Their smells were strong and new, and she followed them, wanting to see her favorite brother.  Across the bailey, into the main keep. Through the entry, and through the twisting halls towards the rooms where her sister lived. The rooms that used to house her parents. She knew the way, now, and upped her pace.  

She caught sight of guards outside the door, but if they were surprised to see a dire wolf running for them, they didn’t show it.  She stopped in front of the door, looking expectantly at the guards. They exchanged and expression with each other, and one shrugged.  The other looked down at her and said, “Shoo, wolfie. Your mistress is busy.” 

She whined at them, and they ignored her.  She stepped forward, scratching at the door.  She could smell them beyond the door; her sister, her wolf brother, her human brother, and one other that she didn’t know.  She wanted to see them, so she whined again, scratching harder, pawing at the doorknob. Her paws couldn’t make it work right, and the men still wouldn’t help her.  The door shook at she scratched harder on it, and the men edged away. 

“Willem!,” came her sister’s loud voice on the other side of the door, “Let her in!” 

The guard, for his part, seemed relieved, and reached around her to open the door for her.  She huffed at him, gloating, as she walked past. She noticed the visitor’s eyes widen a fraction and the woman said, “Two of them? There’s two of them?” 

A half second later, her human brother said, “Nymria is here?” 

“I...forgot to tell you,” her sister replied, “She showed up about two moons ago.  I let her come and go as she wishes.” 

Ghost padded over to her.  Her quiet, solemn brother. He didn’t look so good, scratches in his fur and one of his ears missing.  But he was still her brother, and they sniffed each other, tails wagging in greeting. They rubbed against each other, and she gave a few happy yips.  Her brother was, as always silent. She wasn’t even sure whether or not he could make noise. It didn’t matter to her, he was still her brother. After she greeted her wolf brother, she greeted her human brother, yipping and shoving her face into his hand.  He smiled, scratching her behind the ears. Greetings finished, she and her wolf brother found places in front of the fire. The humans lapsed again into discussion. Ghost fell asleep, but she wanted to listen, so she relaxed, her head on her paws, ears attentive to their words.  

“What do you mean, you were in a tree?,” her sister asked her human brother.  

“I think that’s where I was.  I can’t be sure. I was down there and one of the corpses grabbed me, and then I was someplace else.  I was in Castle Black, but it was empty. Sansa, I can’t explain it. There was someone there, and he showed me Bran talking to the three-eyed raven--” 

“He  _ is _ the three-eyed raven,” her sister retorted.  

“The one who came before him.  This was someone else, someone older.  He had white hair, and a red eye, and a strange birthmark,” she smelled a spike of fear from her sister, and from the purple-eyed woman.  

They exchanged a look, and the woman said, “A port stain birthmark? Large and on the right side of his face? In a queer shape, almost like a raven?” 

“Yes,” her human-brother frowned, “How could you possibly know that?” 

“Bloodraven.  One of the great bastards.  Septa Mordane taught us about them when we learned about the Blackfyre Rebellions,” her sister said, “How was he possibly alive?” 

“Foul magic, I’m sure,” her human-brother said, “He was part of a tree.  It was growing through him.” 

“Foul, indeed,” muttered the purple eyed woman, sinking back in her chair.  

“It’s worse,” her human-brother continued, “I had a guide while I was in there.  He was talking, and then he had to flee. Hoardfrost chased him from the visions, and we heard...sounds.  Like talking, but ice cracking instead of words. I’ve been dreaming about them, too, lately.” 

“I’ve been having wolf dreams,” her sister said, quietly, “I haven’t had them since...since lady was alive.  But Nymeria has brought them back to me.” 

“I have them too,” her human brother answered.  She restrained the desire to wake her wolf-brother by kicking him.  He always slept through the interesting things, “I dream that I’m ghost.  They’re not dream, Sansa. We can do what Bran can do. Or something like it.  We can skinchange.” 

“Another thing to worry me, that’s what will make my night complete,” her sister’s sarcasm was cutting.  Her pride in her sister swelled, and if she’d been able to smile she would have. 

“The guide told me to learn to use the gift,” her human brother said, “And I think he was right.  We should learn to use our gift. Because I don’t think it’s coincidence that we start having wolf dreams and I see frost and ice.  I think that the Night King somehow survived.” 

The words,  _ that _ name, woke terror deep inside her, and she ran from it.  Ran from Winterfell, from Nymeria, from all of it. Sailing back as the would passed under her in a rush.  Her ship was close, so close, but them something flickered on the horizon. Her attention caught, and she pulled towards it.  Bright, the thing was, bright. She got closer and she saw that there was more than one. They were flames, bright and happy, dancing and wheeling in the sky.  

_ Join us _ , they whispered,  _ become us. _

She obeyed, pulling towards them, the sea rushing under her.  She reached for one, touched it. And her whole self was aflame.  It was so strong, this thing, so strong! It burned and burned and the pain was everywhere.  The pain was inside her, clawing at her with tiny fingers, melting her, consuming her. Too much, it was too much, and--

“Arya!,” Someone was shaking her, “Arya, wake up!” 

She heard the voice, the familiar silk of it, and she opened her eyes.  Imari was there, worry splashed onto every feature, his hands on her shoulders, “Wha--?” 

“You were screaming.  In your sleep. Loud enough to wake the ship,” she closed her eyes and groaned, her whole sweat-covered body ached.  

Whole Body.  

Shit.  

She was naked.  She opened her eyes, and Imari hadn’t broken her gaze.  Hadn’t looked anywhere but her face. Hadn’t touched anything but her shoulders.  But he was staring into her eyes very intensely, not blinking, almost like he was holding onto her gaze for dear life.  And the longer he looked, and the longer silence hung in the space between them, the further away her dream was chased. The more she relaxed.  They were still, the both of them, not letting a single muscle twitch. Unbidden, other thoughts came to her. The sight of the smooth curve of his spine down the middle of his broad back, muscles moving and working under dark skin and the bright sun.  His laugh, and his teasing words. The habit he had of shifting in his seat and crossing one leg over the other when they were alone in her cabin together. He couldn’t seem to keep still. His arms while he pulled on the ropes, helping the crew. The thin thread of fear she felt every time he climbed to the crow’s nest.  She thought of these things, and a different kind of tension coiled low in her belly. She’d loved Gendry, and she’d wanted to be with him, but it didn’t feel the same around Imari. She woke up around him. 

And it terrified her.  The god of death couldn’t scare her.  The dragons only angered her. The undead challenged her.  But this? This terrified her. So when Imari’s expression changed, and his face came closer to hers, she gasped in a breath and shoved herself up and backwards, out of his hands, her back to the wall.  She grabbed her unused sheet as she went and wrapped them tightly around herself. His eyes never left her face, she noticed, didn’t leer at her the way Meryn Trant had. Didn’t stare at her with quiet, pregnant longing the way Gendry had.  There were no presumptions here, no expectations. Only Imari’s concern for her well-being, and the tight heat that always lurked under his teasing. It was just...him. 

And she could not be made bare like that.  Nudity was one thing, but her soul? No, that belonged only to her.  She she forced her breathing to slow and said, “Thank you. For waking me.  I was...I was having a nightmare.” 

He nodded and stood, filling a cup with water leftover from her supper.  He handed it to her, and she drank gratefully, “Are you ok?” 

“I don’t know,” she said when she’d finished drinking, “I...saw things.  I was burning.” 

That last was whispered so quietly he likely barely heard, “You were visited by your god of death.” 

She didn’t think so, but she couldn’t talk about it, so she nodded and shrugged, fidgeting with the now-empty cup in her hands.  She didn’t know what to say, and she wanted him to go so that she could think about what she’d seen and heard. Wolf dreams. She hadn’t had one in so long, but she knew what they were.  She remembered from the nights in Braavos. Nymeria was in Winterfell, and something was going on. Something that made her stomach turn. It seemed the many-faced god wasn’t finished with her yet.  Or were these the old gods? Was she still no one? Could no one warg into a wolf? So many questions that she didn’t have answers for. And the burning, oh, the burning. The pain made her skin twitch, and she pulled the sheet tighter.  

Imari seemed to sense her discomfort, and he took the empty cup from her hand, placing it on the table beside her, “I’ll be up the rest of the night.  Go back to sleep.” 

Safe.  She was safe.  She nodded at him, and he slipped out the door, closing it behind him.  She laid down, mind racing, and attempted to go back to sleep. The blackness found her, and the only thing that chased her through that soft darkness was the aching between her legs.  It chased her right into dreams of a different kind. 


	13. Yara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Always one with a better head on her shoulders than her father or uncles, Yara has taken it upon herself to build the future of House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands as she tries to keep the peace. But her salvation lay in the hands of a bitter rival of her father's, and she must go against several millennia of tradition to attempt to move her people into the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ack, sorry it took so long! I've been on vacation and then I had to move and it's a long chapter. Hope you like it!

Yara tossed the crumpled piece of paper in the fire, cursing softly to herself.  Helya looked expectantly at her, “Well? What did they say?”  

“They’re not willing to trade with us,” she forced the words out through clenched teeth.  The answer was the same from Banefort, The Crag, and now Seagard. She’d planned to open relations with them, because it would be easier to trade in goods coming across the neck through Seagard and Sisterton on the eastern side of the continent rather than sailing all the way around Westeros, but long years of being victims of Iron Born raiding made them resolutely opposed to opening trade negotiations.  That, in turn, made it much more difficult to turn her captains to trade rather than raiding. Already some of the stronger ones had started pillaging smaller towns on nearby coasts as rumors of food shortages spread. The captains were discovering what Yara already knew - there was little food to be stolen, “They’re sheltered fools who were kept too far removed from the war.”  

“They should be taught a lesson.  Reminded that you are the Lady Reaper of Pyke, not some little girl sitting on daddy’s chair,”  Helya had her feet up on a nearby table, half her attention on cleaning her nails with a knife she’d produced from somewhere on her person.  

“I’m hard-pressed to disagree with you,” she admitted.  The impulse was so strong. That way of life was all she really knew, and yet, “But it isn’t sustainable forever.  The rest of the six kingdoms could come and make war on us all over again.”  

“They’re too depleted for that.”  

“Aye, but they won’t be forever.  Spring will come, and then summer, and then they’ll start growing things again.  We will still be here on our island with our metal and our rocks. Euron lost most of our ships to the dragon queen; mad fool that he was,” his body had been found on the shore, gutted like a fish, and returned to Yara after the razing of the city.  She’d tossed it overboard on her way home, burying him at sea. Let the Drowned God take him. The sharks, too.  

“So we make more.  We make them better.”  

Something about Helya’s suggestion tickled an idea in the back of Yara’s mind, “Make them better.  Yes,” she looked up at Helya and grinned, “I think you may have found a solution to our problem.”  

“Oh?,” an arched eyebrow, and she looked up from cleaning her nails.  

Yara leaned forward, “The Stark girl, Arya, came south with the others and asked me to teach her about sailing.  So I took her on my ships for awhile when we moved the fleet. She told me that after her family was slain by the Freys, she went to Braavos.  The Braavosi, she said, can build a war galley in a day. Our fleet wasn’t the only fleet to be depleted in the years since Robert’s death. Maybe they won’t treat with us for iron, but if we can learn from the Braavosi, attract some of their ship builders, we could make ships they’d want.”  

“It’s not a terrible idea,” Helya conceded, “It doesn’t solve the immediate problem of food, though.”

“No,” Yara agreed, “But it is a start.  It’s something. It’s a way of showing that we mean it when we say that we would rather trade than reave.”  

“I don’t know that the other captains agree with you.” 

“I know.  That is why I haven’t tried to stop any of them from the small bit of reaving they’ve engaged in.  Let them keep some traditions. They can’t all be taken at once, or I will have a rebellion on my hands,” Iron Islanders had no qualms about showing their displeasure, even to their liege lord.  Sometimes  _ especially _ to their liege lord, “Our only option is Lannisport.”  

“Tyrion agreed to that long ago, and since you negotiated the terms while you were in King’s Landing with him there wasn’t much to do before we got started.  But our sailors are finding it difficult to,” she hesitated, looking for the right words, “Function.”  

“What do you mean?” 

“They find that the inns are all full, or there is no dock master to check their cargo and let them ashore.  The brothels and taverns mysteriously are low on whores and serving wenches to bring them food and drink. Everyone already has all the iron they need, even when they’ve been advertising for it in the trade lists.”  

“Damn them!,” she pounded her fist on the table in frustration and jumped from her chair, pacing the room, “Damn them all; the people of Lannisport, the five kings, and every idiot fucking man that came before me who thought that killing and raping was a sustainable way of life! There must have been something before.  There must be something that we did before we turned to reaving that sustained us.”  

Helya, ever practical, pointed out, “I’m not sure it would matter if there was.  It’s been too many years and too much blood. If we can’t reave, we can’t take thralls.  If we can’t take thralls then we can’t work the mines. And you need to be careful with this talk, Yara.  You’re starting to sound like one of the green mainlanders.”  

The problem was an ancient one.  The soil of the Iron Islands was too poor to grow food in abundance, and the backbones of the Ironmen weren’t flexible enough that they’d deign to work in the mines.  So they raided, took thralls and salt wives, and forced the former into the iron mines. Slaves is what they really were. Slaves that they could scarce afford to feed.  And if the thralls couldn’t be fed, then they would die, and with them the iron mining and Yara’s last hope turning the ship of the Ironborn in a different direction. They’d be forced to return to raiding, as they had been before.  

_ This is too hard _ , she thought to herself,  _ Too hard to keep this promise.  Tyrion should have asked for something else.   _

That was one of the conditions of their negotiations, as it had been with the dragon queen.  Stop raiding. Stop killing. Stop raping and stealing and stop the bleeding they’d all be doing.  The war, Theon’s death, Euron...her taste for blood had lessened just as much as Tyrion’s had and so she’d agreed.  She’d naively agreed without realizing how difficult it would be. But she was Yara Greyjoy, godsdammit, and she had a spine just as strong as the rest of the Ironborn.  Stronger, even, for the extra challenge of being a woman and a captain and a leader. She could do this. She could find a way for her people to live that didn’t require that they resort to the old ways.  She’d paid the iron price for these islands, many times over, and she would not give up on them so easily. She chose the footsteps of her grandfather, not her father. Or mayhaps she was a bit of both.  

She walked back behind her desk, leaning on it with her fists, “Any news of my uncle?” 

“None that you haven’t already been appraised of,” he still was hiding somewhere in the islands.  Ministering to people and vanishing whenever she got close. She wondered what he was so afraid of, and what was he doing in those towns? Was her fomenting rebellion? Somehow she didn’t think so.  Damphair hadn’t so much as looked at politics since becoming a priest. But if he wasn’t doing something underhanded, why was he so resolutely avoiding her soldiers? Did he think she was Euron? Did he know of his brother’s death? She’d have no answers until she caught him and could ask.  She tightened her fists and stood again.  

“I’m going to walk.  I need to think,” she said, stalking out of the room.  

She let her mind wander while her feet did, mulling over her multitude of problems.  She had spent the last months, since King’s Landing, turning the same problems over in her mind with no solutions.  Every route she attempted to go down yielded the same ending - years of raiding by Pyke had made for no friends and bitter enemies.  It didn’t really matter that her grandfather had tried to bring peace, and had tried to un-do some of that damage. Her father with his two unsuccessful rebellions and her uncle with his madness had destroyed any progress her grandfather might have made.  

Her steps led her to the throne room and the seastone chair.  She stopped there, idly staring at it. She didn’t much like the thing - it was hulking and huge, made of oily black stone that was carved to resemble a kraken with a seat nestled in its tentacles.  She’d always felt uneasy around it. The strangeness of it, the otherworldly nature of it, made her feel as if ants were marching along her skin. Like the beast might come alive at any moment and wrap her in those tentacles and drag her down to the Drowned God’s hall.  When she was a child, she used to run through the hall as fast as she could. It made no matter to her that her brothers laughed at her, and took turns playing on the chair, pretending to be lord reaper. All of them were dead now, and she was not. She was now the future of their house, and the future of the islands.  

_ We do not sow _ , the words were whispered in her mind, clear through the jumble of thoughts and questions and problems.  

“We do not,” she whispered to herself, “But it does not mean we must destroy and steal to live.”  

_ We do not SOW _ , came the thought, queer-feeling in her mind, and she frowned.  She looked up at the chair. Had that tentacle always been at that position? The one at the top.  Surely it must have been. Stone couldn’t move. But there was something different about the chair, and she could not discern exactly what it was.  Just her mind playing tricks, no doubt. The childhood fear too deeply ingrained in her. She turned from the chair and continued on.  

She continued down the halls, moving quietly.  She liked to move quietly sometimes, because when people didn’t know she was coming they didn’t stop talking, and she could more easily hear things about her castle that she otherwise might not.  That was the case right now, as she heard voices from around the bend. She recognized them as belonging to two of her servants.  

“Did you hear about Jade and Derry?,” one said to the other, the delight of gossip clear in her mind.  

“I did not, but I’ve a guess,” the other said, the dry humor clear in her voice.  

“Well, I heard that she’d been letting him,” a sweet, girlish giggle, “You know,  _ plow her field _ .”  

“The whole castle knows that.  Likely even the lady reaper herself,” it was true, Yara  _ did _ know that, she simply hadn’t cared.  Let them do as they will, they weren’t thralls.  

“Yes, but,” there was a pause and a giggle, “The sowing of that fertile earth has yielded fruit, if you catch my meaning.” 

“I catch your meaning,” the second woman said, sounding marginally more interested, but Yara had stopped listening.  An idea occurred to her, something that might solve many of her problems at once. Something so simple that she wondered why she hadn’t thought of it before.  She turned and hurried back towards her solar where she’d left Helya.  

She caught the other woman on the bridge between the Bloody Keep and the Kitchen Keep, and stopped her, “Helya, I’ve an answer to our problems.”  

“Oh? That was fast,” Yara didn’t even bother to roll her eyes at the tone.  

“Contact the captains.  Gather as much of the fleet as you can without leaving the islands unprotected.  Longships and trading vessels alike. Give them all flags of truce and command them to be raised at all times.  We sail for Seagard.”  

 

***

 

Helya’s efficiency had the fleet gathered at Pyke in short order.  It took merely a week for them to appear in the harbor of Lordsport.  All of the captains were given flags of truce and told to fly them. Some grumbled about it, but none disobeyed.  For now, they still had at least some faith or fear in or of the lady reaper. They took provisions for the journey, although not many were needed because Seagard was close, but Yara made sure that the trading ships carried useful cargo.  She sent a raven to House Mallister announcing her intent to visit, and sent it off the morning the sailed from Lordsport. It would precede their arrival, but not by long enough for the Mallisters to really muster any defense. Not that they’d ever been all that good at defending against the Ironborn.  In any case, she didn’t want them to take her announced visit as an opportunity to exact some revenge. She needed to talk to them, to be their guest.  

It was a short voyage from Lordsport to Seagard, and they passed quickly for Yara.  Too quickly, for she loved the sea and she loved her ship. She had forgotten what it felt like to hear the waves and feel the rocking of the deck beneath her feet.  She was wasted sitting in a solar on Pyke, and for a moment she allowed her brain to feel and process those doubts. She allowed them to come, and she allowed herself a few moments of worry.  Then she folded those worries away, acknowledging them, but not giving them power over her. She had set a course, and she would follow it unless it became obvious that it was the wrong course.  

They pulled into the harbor in the mid-morning and, to her relief, the great bronze bell did not ring.  It had been built centuries ago to warn the citizens of an attack by the Ironmen. The whole city, in fact, was built to keep the Ironmen at bay.  Colorful homes were built on terraces carved into the sides of hills, ringed by strong walls. The white-walled keep stretched above it all on the tallest part of the hills, a long causeway arching through the sky from it to the robust belltower out in the harbor.  It was like Pyke, in a way, to have built the belltower and a few smaller towers, on small, rocky spits of land that didn’t deserve to be called ‘island’. They, too, were stained by centuries of salt spray and eroded by the sea.  

_ All of the Greyjoys who visited Seagard have died _ , she thought to herself,  _ I hope I do not join them _ .  She remembered the last time that bell was rung, and she remembered exactly why.  Her father sent her brother here to take Seagard many years ago during the Greyjoy rebellion.  The fight that ended with her two older brothers dead, one beneath the walls of Seagard, and her third brother growing up hostage to the Starks.  For the hundredth time, she wondered if this was all folly. If she should be here at all. Peace, she realized, can be just as risky as war. Trust is harder to stomach than running into a battle with a sword, and deceit a more difficult enemy to fight.  Her father, then, had been a coward through and through - too weak and proud to see that alliances bore more fruit than wars. She’d fought her share of battles, and likely would again, but she would try this first. Smarter to know which battles to fight, and which to avoid.  

She’d left Helya and Wendamyr back on Pyke, but she’d had other advisors and nobles join her.  She turned to Qarl, “Signal the other ships. We go ashore.”  

He nodded, acknowledging her command, “Am I staying or going?” 

“Going.  The others can go ashore, too, but they are under no circumstances to disturb the peace.  Tell any man - or woman - who does that they’ll be tied to the bow of the ship for the trip home,” she didn’t wait for him to do as she said; she knew he would.  Her first mate was as loyal and competent as he was pretty.  

Soon they were in the boat, rowing for shore.  The bay was calm, the water glassy and welcoming.  It seemed to almost be a different color here, a brighter teal rather than the angry browns and dark blues of Pyke and the Iron Islands.  They were in the open ocean, but Seagard was protected by the Cape of Eagles. So she watched the city as they approached, seeing the banners of the Mallisters occasionally rippling.  There wasn’t much of a breeze today, and it made the cold winter air slightly warmer. So the silver eagle stood proud and watchful on its indigo field, its eyes seeming to follow the boats’ movements.  

They rowed up to one of the white stone docks that stretched gracefully into the water, tying the boats up and climbing out onto the quay.  There was a group waiting to greet them. Armed, she saw, and armored. She wasn’t surprised; the enmity between their houses went back as far as the two had existed.   _ But _ , she thought to herself, _ we’d be stronger as allies. _   She needed to ally with them, if she couldn’t, then the Ironborn would lose their patience and she’d have to lead them in reaving instead.  And lead them she would, because it would be the only way to limit the damage and direct their attacks to the right places. Otherwise they’d ravage the coast, and everyone would eat themselves out of house and home.  

“My lady reaver,” the man at the front said by way of greeting.  He was tall, and strong-looking, built well. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and deep green eyes.  His thick, brown hair was work slightly long, tied back at the nape of his neck, with some strands escaping.  His armor was well-made and cared for, she could tell, and his sword looked to be of good quality. There was no fear in his eyes as he met her stare, but a quirk at the corner of his mouth softened him a little.  Like he wanted to share some joke with them, to get past the formalities and onto the good time. She could appreciate the sentiment.  

“Lord Mallister,” she said, recognizing him as Patrek Mallister, heir to Seagard and Jason Mallister’s son, holding her hand out in greeting, “You’ve the look of your father.”  

He shook her hand, and some of the tenseness on both sides relaxed.  Hands weren’t as close to swords and some stares were broken, “Well, they do say I’ve a bit of my mother about my eyes.  Well met.”  

“Well met,” she was glad to see the man, because it meant his father was taking her request seriously enough, “Are we to go to the keep?” 

“Yes, but your men are to find rooms in the city.  You and your uncle and some others may come up to the castle,”  _ Smart _ .   _ Get my men off the ships and scattered about the city so we cannot attack _ , she weighed her options,  _ Yet some must stay or I will be robbed of all of my protection. _

“Some will stay on the ships to maintain them while we are here, but I will give the rest your instructions.  May I introduce my uncle, Lord Roderik Harlaw, and my first mate, Qarl. I’ve also brought Lord Tristifer Botley with me,” She motion to them in turn: her stern, older uncle, unassuming with his reading glasses in his hand and his average looks, but he was smart and she valued his council.  Qarl, with his thin build and his face so beautiful that he almost had the look of a woman, but he had earned his place by her side by being deadly with the blade he carried. And Tris, who was her friend and had long supported her, one of her stronger lords. He’d been abused by Euron, but she’d healed those wounds and returned what was stolen to him.  They’d known each other since childhood, when he’d been ugly and pimpled, but he’d grown into a handsome man, if too soft for life on the Iron Islands. All of them were friends, valued councillors, and loyal to her. Her uncle may gripe about her gender, but she was the last legitimate Greyjoy, so if he was still bothered by it, he kept his complaints to himself.  

Patrek gave them perfunctory nods of his head in turn to acknowledge them, “Seagard is glad to host you.  My father is particularly interested in making your acquaintance, lord Harlaw. He has heard of your library.” 

“He and everyone else,” her uncle was called The Reader, because of the amount of time he spent buried in her books.  It was said derisively by many, but Yara knew the value of the written word. She knew her uncle had learned much from his books.  

“Well, then, shall we?,” he didn’t bother introducing them men who were with him, so Yara wondered who they were, and if they were important.  She couldn’t really see their faces, hidden as they were behind their helms. Only Patrek had gone without one. He turned and started towards the looming, white structure above them, and she followed.  The guards fell in around her and the rest of her household. The clank of her armor added to her doubts about her decision to come here, and she hoped again that she wasn’t making the wrong choice.  

They were taking through a strong door near this dock, rather than through the open gates further down the waterfront.  Into the walls they went, and Patrek led them up a spiraling staircase that only allowed them to pass through single-file.  They didn’t talk as the ascended, the space being too small to be conducive to conversation. Up and up they went, passing several landings and doors, and Yara realized that they must be going up to the parapets.  

When they exited through a tower and out onto the top of the walls, she was shown to be correct.  The wall was wide, easily wide enough for horses to ride in both directions, with heavy artillery resting in the crenellations along the pathway, all pointed towards the sea.  She could see her ships from up here, looking like toys on a sheet of glass from this high. The sun shone down on them, warming the top of her head, and it was the warmest she’d been since returning from King’s Landing.  

“My apologies for the long climb,” Patrek said, walking to the battlements and gesturing out to the city, “But I wanted you to see the city from its best angle.  Come, look.”  

She joined him, turning from the sea to look at the city.  He was right, from far above she could see the bright colors hidden behind the high, white walls.  Clean, well-planned streets radiated away from the walls, snaking up the rolling hills into the neighborhoods.  Shops were open, people coming and going - and stopping to chat, even in the cold weather. The buildings were all made of the same white stone, but the colors came from the roofs - they were made of glazed, fired clay tiles.  The walls were painted, too, with bright, swirling, colorful designs decorating the buildings. And although winter meant bare trees and no flowers, she could see many bare branches and the well-kept gardens below them. It was everything Pyke was not, and it was everything that her family had tried to destroy over the years.  

“I can see why you’re so protective of it,” she admitted to him, and he laughed.  

“Your father hated what he could not have,” he said, gesturing to the city with his head.  

“My father hated a great many things.  Sometimes I think he hated everything.”  

“I’ve been told as much about him.  That he was angry and bitter to the end, and that your uncles are all mad.”  

“I can’t argue against it.  Euron was a madman, and Auron only cares for the Drowned God.”  

“And you?” 

She shrugged, “I care for what keeps my people fed.  I care for what moves us forward.” 

“Well,  _ I _ care for wine and a warm bed,” the grin on his face was roguish, but it did not meet his eyes.  Not yet, but she saw no hostility in them either.  

“Worthy pursuits,” she intoned in a joking, falsely serious voice.  This time, he actually did laugh.  

They turned from the battlements and continued their walk along the walls, their retainers trailing closely behind them.  Patrek pointed out various things as they walked; here, the place where King Torrhen Mallister slew his brother when the latter tried to usurp the crown of the former.  There, the place where Lady Rysa Mallister wed Lord Lisson Stonehouse for love, in defiance of her father’s wishes. She’d done it in plain sight of his rooms, where he’d locked himself in protest and grief at the match.  He showed them the path that led to the great bronze bell that was rung when the Ironmen came. If she hadn’t grown up running across the swinging rope bridges on the Iron Islands, the thin, rail-less path and the long fall to the ocean below would have terrified her.  

He took them through the front gates and into the bailey, where the members of her household and guard that would be staying with her left with castle stewards to be shown to their rooms.  Qarl went with them, leaving her alone with her uncle and Tris. The silver eagle was everywhere - on livery, painted and carved into the stones of the castle, on tapestries, on armor, on silvery winged helms for the guardsmen, and on banners that hung from all of the walls that needed them.  That much silver and purple was suffocating. The only place Yara wore her colors was on her ship - the kraken swam on her sails, and stood on the banners that were tied to the masts. She wanted people to know she was coming, but she cared little for reminding them where they were once caught.  People taken to Pyke didn’t need banners to remind them who was in charge. There were banners near the gates, so old and faded that the black had turned to the grey of the stones they flapped against, and the salt had turned them stiff.  

He led them through the castle and deep into it.  Inside, rather than being built entirely for defense, it also held a kind of beauty.  The ceilings of the main areas arched far overhead, and windows high up let in sunlight.  The white of the walls reflected the light, making the whole interior bright. The floors, though, those were colorful and covered with mosaics in complicated pictures and patterns.  

When Patrek caught her looking up at the ceilings he said, “It also helps in the summer to keep it cool.  The heat rises into the vaults and stays up there. The windows have removable glass, so the doors are opened and the glass is removed, and the air flows up and out.  In some places we even have fountains, and the air rushing over the water in them cools us even further.”  

“That’s...smart,” she said, “It rarely gets hot enough on the Iron Islands to need something like that.” 

“Yes, you are rather exposed out there.  I admit, there have been days that I’ve been jealous of your closeness to the sea.  We leave near it, but you live in it, nearly.”  

“Or it lives in us,” she shrugged, “It rains a lot, too.”  

“Strange that the weather should be so different between two places so close together.”  

“Everything is different,” the only one among them who didn’t stand out like a dark smudge was Qarl.  He had a love for fashion that wasn’t suppressed by the taunts of the other Ironmen. It was easy to see why he’d become so good with his sword.  Being able to defend himself gave him a freedom that wasn’t possible for everyone.  

They passed through the halls, and towards Patrek’s father.  As they entered the throne room, Patrek laid a kiss on a stone in the lintel; a gesture that he clearly did without really thinking on it.  It was darkened by the touch of many hands, and under the dirt there were marks carved into it. When Yara gave him a questioning look he said, “The foundation stone for the the castle.  We kiss it for luck.”  

_ What a strange custom.  They are very attached to the buildings of this city _ , she felt the same urge her forefathers had felt: to take it from them.  To smash it, to break it. But unlike her forefathers, she tamped the urge down and followed Patrek Mallister into his father’s throne room.  

It wasn’t as large as she was expecting.  There was room along the sides and in the center for the nobles and anyone else who might need to see the ruler here, although at the moment it was mostly empty.  The architecture here was just as ornate, but there was no color save the white of the stone. All of the decoration came from carvings in the walls and pillars. Even the ceiling was covered, and there were reliefs in the floor, set behind thick panes of glass meant to be walked on.  There were, as to be expected, ornate fireplaces carved into the walls every few feet, several of them lit. It was winter, afterall, and the warmth was needed. At the back of the room was a throne - a great, carved eagle spread its wings from behind a stiff, white, smooth, stone chair that was barely more than a curved shape carved against the belly of the eagle.  But the head, and one of the wings, were missing and clearly smashed. Jason Mallister did not sit on that throne, but instead sat in a chair on the ground, in the apex of an arch of other chairs. Any that needed to speak to him would do it on eye level, and in view of his advisors. There was something that Yara respected about that. He didn’t place himself above his people, although his house words were “Above the Rest”.  

Patrek did no hesitate, and strode down the center of the room towards his father, bowing when he got there, “Father, I’ve brought the Lady of Pyke, Yara Greyjoy, her uncle Rodrik Hawlaw, and Lord Tristifer Botley, all of the Iron Islands.”  

Yara noticed that there weren’t many lords filling the seats, and she wondered if that was because of who she was or if they’d simply lost too many in the war.  Perhaps they had, perhaps Seagard wasn’t as untouched as she supposed. She stepped forward and bowed to Lord Mallister, “Thank you for allowing us into your home.”  

“Yes, yes,” his voice was dismissive, and she straightened to watch him, “It seems you’re more serious than I first surmised.”  

“I am, my lord.”  

“And you’ve come in person to beg an alliance from me?”   

She ground her teeth at the word beg, and shoved aside that small insult to her pride, “I believe that an alliance, an end to the long years of fighting between our houses, will be advantageous to us both.” 

“Ha, your ships were all destroyed by the dragon queen and ours were not.  Our city is whole and well-fed, and you are starving. You have nothing to offer me.”  

“Ironmen are always starving and targeted, and the only thing it’s ever done for us was make us very, very, hungry,” she emphasized the last word so he’d hear the threat in it, so he’d know that she wasn’t talking about food, “I am here because I believe that I can sate that hungry, and that in doing so it would make us both more...secure.”  

“You come here begging and then you threaten me?,” his voice was raised, his hackles up.  

“I come here as an equal, the ruler of one of the six kingdoms, and I tell you a truth you already know.  When the Ironmen lack something, or even when we’re simply bored, we raid. We attack, we raid, we steal, and we rape.  It’s how we’ve lived for thousands of years. Seagard is the closest and fattest target. You know it, I know it. Why equivocate?” 

He scowled at her, “You got your mouth from your father.” 

“And my brains from my mother, and my attitude from my grandsire.”  

“Your grandsire attempted peace, and failed.” 

“He failed because he grew old and died before his new ways could take hold, and his son had outsized ambitioned.  Conquer the seven kingdoms,” she rolled her eyes, “He would have been able to hold them or rule them. He was a foolish old man, and he died for it.”  

“And your uncle?” 

“He, too, is dead, and the other spends his day trying to suck the drowned god’s dick,” next to Jason, Patrek hid a laugh behind his hand, “The Damphair wants no part in the affairs of this world.” 

“It is true.  He flits around my island, bothering my people and covering them in seawater, as he has always done,” Roderick added.  Jason looked somewhat mollified.  

“Then what is it that you have come to ask me?,” Jason addressed the question to Yara.  

“I have a plan, my lord, and an offer, but it should only be heard by those you think are necessary.  I’ll leave it to you to decide whom you bring into your council.”  

He nodded, “Leave us.” 

The assembled nobles left, filing out of the room until only the lords Mallister, Yara, Roderick, and Jason’s Maester, Brandon, remained.  Even Tris left the room with the other nobles. After they were gone, it was time for Yara to make her proposal. She stood in front of Lord Mallister, back straight, and began, “My ultimate goal, in seeking an alliance with you, is to change how the Ironborn make our place in the world.”  

“Others have tried, you know.  Men greater than you have made the attempt at peace.”  

“They have,” she agreed, “And I have studied them and their methods.  I have listened and learned and I have captained my ship and led the fleet for many years now.  I have fought, but I have also spent much time with my uncle Roderick. You know how he values learning, and he passed that onto me.  I don’t enjoy reading as he does, but I have come to understand the real, true value of a learned person. He taught me about the failed kings and lords before me, and I have puzzled out the one thing all of them have done wrong.”  

“Oh, have you now?,” there was a hint of teasing sarcasm in Patrek’s voice.  

“I have.  They all sought to make the Ironmen stop sailing, stop raiding, to give up the sea without replacing it with anything else.  The Ironborn will never give up the sea, and they will never accept working in the mines, and we don’t have the land to tend farms.  But I will give them something else, something that won’t hurt their pride or take them far from the sea.”  

“And what is that?,” Jason didn’t sound an iota less skeptical than he had before.  

“Ships, my lord.  The dragon queen destroyed so many that it has stifled trade and crippled seaside defenses.  The Iron Fleet, the royal fleet, even the Redwyne fleet, have all been seriously depleted. I propose that an alliance between Seagard and the Iron Islands could position us to replenish these fleets.  Our knowledge and your resources would be a strong combination.”  

He hadn’t outright rejected her, and she could tell he was starting to listen, seeing the wisdom in what she was saying, so she continued, “Arya Stark told me of things she’d seen in Braavos, and how they have shipyards there that can build a ship in a day.  With the right agreements between Seagard and Pyke, we could lure away some of their ship builders and add their knowledge to our own. You have access to the Trident and the Kingsroad. We could establish a trade route overland between the east and west coasts of Westeros, right through the center of the kingdom.”  

“And what makes you think Edmure will allow an overland route through the middle of the riverlands?” 

“The Twins are empty, his land ravaged by the fighting, and his armies are weak.  He is weak. He will capitulate the first hint of profit. Edmure is not Hoster, Blackfish, or even Catelyn.  He will be easy to convince. Every town along the river, from here to Gulltown, would feel some benefit from an east west trading route.  And once we have replenished the fleets of Westeros, we will have established ourselves as masters of shipbuilding and seafaring knowledge.  That in and of itself becomes valuable.”  

She watched as Patrek and Lord Mallister thought it over, and Patrek’s eyes slid to his father, “It’s not a terrible notion.”  

“No,” his father said after a long silence, “It is not.  But I don’t trust your Ironborn as far as I could fling you.  What assurances can you give, what can you tell me to think you have any interest at all in maintaining this alliance?” 

In her mind, Yara tossed aside a hundred sarcastic responses.  She’d been expecting this, and she came prepared, “The same way the noble houses have trusted each other for thousands of years: Marriage.”  

Surprised flickered across Lord Mallister’s face, “For whom? Tristifer does not seem a large enough prize for the risk.”  

“Me, my lord.  I propose that we join our houses, and wed me to your son.  I am young and have many years of childbearing. I am the sole heir to the Iron Islands, as he is the sole heir to Seaguard.  Tristifer, yes, that is why I brought him. He can be wed to a maid of your choosing, but I offer myself to seal our bargain. We could end thousands of years of strife between our lands and create a vast fortune for both our houses,” she stole a glance at Patrek.  He was staring at her openly, thoughtfully.  

Lord Mallister gave a sharp not, “Go, find your rooms, you have given me much to consider.”  


	14. Bran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're back in King's Landing with Bran in this chapter. Seeds he planted after the sack have started to bear red-and-white fruit in Essos, and have opened their eyes. What does Bran see when he looks through them? And what is it that chases him and seduces him inside the weirwood network?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so this one took me a few days to write because I had to do a ridiculous amount of research for it. I re-read all of Bran's chapters in ADWD, watched a bunch of lore vids, and dug deep on the ASOIAF wiki. So hopefully I didn't forget anything. Anyway, I've been kind of feeling like I've gotten too distracted by the desire to only drop hints and to be obtuse and draw things out and that the plot has somewhat suffered for it and slowed a little, so in this chapter the pacing is back on track and there's a ton of lore and plot points. ^_^ I had a lot of fun with this one, so I hope you like it. I'd been falling into a bad habit of telling rather than showing too, which is something I have a hard time with when I'm writing third person. For whatever reason 3rd person makes me *ramble* rather than *do*, so I've been trying to push myself back into the showing rather than the telling.
> 
> Oh! I forgot to add: D&D's portrayal and assumptions about paralysis were very inaccurate, and I'm going to strive to make them more accurate. I'm basing a lot of this on a friend of mine, who lost the use of his legs after suffering a broken back after falling backwards from a high place. I have added other research to the portrayal, but a lot of the details come from knowing this person (like the nerve damage and the assessment of sensation on the legs and whatnot.).

Bran wasn’t as hands-off a ruler as Robert had been, so he often attended the small council meetings, but he had no taste or talent for intrigue.  That was a good portion of the reason he kept Tyrion around. Gods knew he didn’t want to have to use his powers to stay aware of the plots-within-plots that characterized the court.  No, sparing Tyrion and appointing him hand had been a good decision that freed Bran’s time up for other things. Things that were more important than petty court drama, like the rebuilding of the city and the keep.  

He had new rooms carved out of the remains of Maegor’s Holdfast for him on the bottom floor so he wouldn’t have to be carried up the steps.  They were closer to the godswood, too. So close that he could see the grove from the windows of his solar. That was what he was looking at right now - staring out and searching to see if he could spot any splashes of red, yet.  Yes, there, maybe - when the wind rustled the branches.  

A knock on his door drew his attention from the window.  He nodded to Pod, giving permission to allow the maester to enter.   _ Future maester _ , Bran reminded himself,  _ I must get better at keeping himself in the present _ .  People didn’t like it when he spoke of the future, and if they were uncomfortable around him it made all of his work much more difficult.  So Bran amended the statement in his head to Acolyte. Sam’s Acolyte, left behind to tend the ravens while Sam was at the citadel, likely carrying a message for him.  

“Hello Astor,” Bran greeted him.  The boy was young, only a little younger than Bran himself, but without Bran’s abilities.  He had featherlight blonde hair, blue eyes, and skin that needed to see the sun. He was tall and skinny, with the coltish legs of a teenager who hadn’t quite grown into their body yet.  His face was perpetually red from running around the castle, and puberty still had his face covered in tiny red pimples. His voice, though, had matured first, developing into a deep baritone that never cracked.  He sang in the sept sometimes when he thought no one was around, and the sound was sweet to Bran.  

“King Bran,” he sketched a bow.  They spoke often in Sam’s absence, and were familiar with each other, “I’ve today’s messages.”  

“Thank you, leave them in the usual place on the desk,” Astor hurried forward and pulled several small scrolls out of his pockets, neatly arranging them in order of importance on the desk.  

“It’s the usual stuff.  Requests from the kingdoms for food, trade arrangements, and the like.  Bills from the builders,” If Bran still could be worried, those would worry him.  Cersei hadn’t been kind to the kingdom’s coffers, nor had Robert before her. The throne was bankrupt and owed money to the likes of the Iron Bank of Braavos.  They hadn’t cared about the regime change, they wanted the money they’d given Cersei to pay for the Golden Company. Money the crown simply didn’t have. Bran, even before he’d become the Three-Eyed Raven, had never been very good at the business end of running his lands.  Adults had done it all for him, keeping him away from the details. Thus far though, Bronn had found ways to produce enough coin to allow the repairs to continue and minimum payments to the bank to be made. They had enough to keep the maintenance of the castle, too, but that was it.  He couldn’t pay men to patrol the Kingsroad, and bandits had started to crop up along it. The Goldcloaks were few and far between because the pay was bad, and so few of them had survived the sack. It was a high-risk, low-reward job that carried little prestige. The wretches that wore the cloaks now were the most desperate of men, and they couldn’t be trusted.  It would get better though. Once the repairs were done, it would be easier to start the flow of gold again. People could come back to the city to live and visit. If the city could be nursed through the rebuilding, both it and the crown’s coffers would recover.  

It wasn’t all bad though.  The workmen came to the city in droves, just as desperate as everyone else in the realm.  Bronn allowed them to move into empty homes for only the cost of the materials needed to rebuild the home, so long as the owners were dead and no descendants found.  It was a clerical nightmare, but the results were worth it. Entire districts had been revitalized, and much of the wood had come from the Kingswood and the money gone right into the coffers.  They brought a market with them, people who wanted to patronize inns and brothels and taverns.  

“And,” Astor continued, breaking Bran’s train of financial thought, “This strange one with your own seal on it.”  

Bran took the piece of paper that the boy held out to him and read the message.   _ New eyes have been opened in the Narrow Sea.  Their roots are well-watered and strong. _

Finally.  Months had passed while Bran waited for this exact message, and it was finally here.  He looked up at Astor, “Thank you, that will be all.”  

“Yes, your grace,” the Acolyte left, the door shutting softly behind him.  

“Podrick, I wish to visit the heart tree,” Bran tucked the tiny slip of paper into the folds of his clothing.  

“As you say,” Pod grabbed Bran’s heavy clothing from the wall.  Bran pulled on his gloves while Pod tucked the heavy blanket around his legs.  The cold wasn’t something he often felt, but he’d been told that was because of his broken spine and he needed to be careful to not get frostbite.  Just because he couldn’t feel the damage didn’t mean it wasn’t happening. The accidental touch of Pod’s hands while tucking him in set off a series of reactions in his legs, making the nerves spark and flare and pain shoot through them.  His left leg started to bounce uncontrollably and Bran grit his teeth, his fingers digging into the arms of his chair until it passed and the pain brought on by the incidental contact lessened. Pod, even after witnessing this for the hundredth time, still looked concerned.  

Bran knew there was an emotional response he should be having to Pod’s concern, or to his own physical ailment.  He remembered the boy Bran being so angry, so willing to lash out at anyone, but he no longer felt angry. He no longer felt anything.  Sometimes he thought his soul had been scoured away by the onrush of information he’d gotten when Bloodraven had been killed. Scoured away, or frozen and locked into some deep, deep place inside him.  Bran once again wondered why Bloodraven hadn’t been like this. Bloodraven had emotions, he was sad over the loss of his half-sister, he was angry when Bran did something he didn’t like, he was sympathetic when Bran had desperately wanted to reach out to his father in the visions.  Now, Bran was none of that. He wasn’t even Bran anymore, and he didn’t really know what he was. Moreover, he couldn’t rouse enough feeling to care.  

His chair rocked and creaked as Pod wheeled him outside and onto the smooth, stone pathway that led from Bran’s rooms to the heart tree.  That was a new addition, too, specifically for Bran’s use. Wheels didn’t roll well over grass and mud. Pod pushed him down the path, neither of them paying much attention to the dull, brown winter garden around them.  In the spring and summer it would be vibrant green, but now all of the trees were sleeping. The only sounds were the whispering of the branches in answer to Pod’s steps and the roll of Bran’s chair.  

They arrived at the heart tree.  It was an ancient oak, huge and regal, especially now that all of the vines had been cleared.  But it wasn’t right, for a heart tree, so the first thing Bran had done during the reconstruction was plant a weirwood near the old oak.  They watered it regularly, and it was growing strong. Pod wheeled Bran to his customary place in the grass between the two trees, “Thank you Pod.  I’ll be here until the scheduled trials.”  

Justice was part of a king’s duty as well.  Pod nodded and walked a few yards away to stand guard.  Bran sent his consciousness into the network of trees, his mind turning east.  It didn’t take him long to find what the raven told him about - new eyes were opened in Essos.  The ships he’d sent east containing thousands of weirwood saplings were starting to make their way into this strange land.  They’d been carefully planted and watered and they’d grown large enough to have small faces carved into their new trunks. Right now, most of the trees were in the wilds and there wasn’t much to see, but some were sold to nobles.  One was in the garden of the Sea Lord of Braavos, and it was the largest. Others he could sense were taking root, but they had yet to really grow and had no faces. No eyes for him to look through. No matter, they would in time, and his reach would grow.  He’d be able to see more and more.  

While checking on the far-flung saplings, he heard the song.  It was always there, this song, and it always attracted him. It was familiar and haunting with a sort of cold beauty, like the sun being split into rainbows by icicle prisms.  It had a sort of familiarity to it, something that reminded him of home. It almost made him sad, or it would have if he could still feel sadness. These qualities intrigued him, drew him in; but there was something deeply unsettling about the song and its singers, something that made him want to avoid it.  If he didn’t know better, he’d say that the strange loveliness of the song terrified him. The song was a thing of deep, terrible knowledge even someone like him shouldn’t have. The type of knowledge he shied away from, while knowing he’d eventually have to confront it. Every time he went into the world of the trees, he heard it, and it dogged his mind.  Here, in his domain, there were parts he avoided. Today, though, bolstered by the power of the new trees, he decided to go towards the song rather than away from it.  

He followed the allure of it, letting himself hear and feel the songs of crisp snow, feel the caress of the cold winds, and taste the ice on the air.  North, he went, north and north and north, into the lands of always winter. Back through the years, he watched them fall away, snowflakes on the wind.  He found himself standing somewhere that he recognized, the singing having faded some. This, he thought, was what he was meant to see.  

He was standing in a place he knew was at the bottom of a well in the kitchens of the Nightfort.  In front of him, a huge weirwood door with a face carved into it. The face looked younger than last he’d seen it, but no less strange.  It still had the same blind, white eyes, although there were far fewer wrinkles in the face. It glowed in the inky darkness of the night at the bottom of this well, but it cast no light.  Bran remembered how dark this place truly was at night, and how long it had taken his eyes to adjust. He remembered how terrified he’d been. All the time, his whole journey north had been nothing but fear and misery.  Now, though, he felt nothing and needed no light to observe the scene in front of him.  

He heard approaching footsteps and saw torches glowing further up the steps that led to the bottom of the well, like orange comets against the inky black.  When he’d last been here, the lack of roof on the kitchens let the moonlight in, but now there was a roof and the torches were necessary. The people were close, and sure-footed on the stairs, like they’d come this way before.  Bran wondered when in time he was to see the Nightfort in this condition. A stone in the pit of his stomach whispered to him,  _ you know when.  You know who they are _ .  

The group reached the landing in front of the door, and Bran got a look at the leader.  He was a man of the Night’s Watch, shrouded in the black of their order. So dark, yet the glow of the door seemed to thrum in response to the presence of the man.  He was tall, and built stocky like Bran’s brother Robb had been, with the same inky black hair, and long face so common among the Starks. This man’s skin was pale, even in the torchlight.  He had an odd quality to him, young, but aged a thousand years within a short lifespan. And resting amid the tangled black curls was a crown of dark iron, spiked and dangerous-looking.  

The man stepped to the door without hesitating; clearly he was used to this.  He did not flinch as Bran had when the door came to life and asked, “Who are you?” 

“I am the watcher on the walls.  I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers.  I am the shield that guards the realms of men.”  

“Then pass,” the door replied, as Bran knew it would, as it had when Sam had said the same words.  Now, as then, the mouth of the door opened wider and wider, stretching beyond the size it should, until the mouth was nothing more than a ring of wrinkles around a hole in the wall.  Cold rushed from the hole, making the torches flicker. Bran couldn’t feel it, but he remembered the musty, icy smell of it.  

The man turned to the group behind him, and said, “My love?” 

They parted, shifting on the small landing to allow someone else through.  It was a woman, Bran saw, with skin as white as snow, and as smooth and flawless as ice.  She wore a long, blue dress, and no furs to guard her from the cold, although Bran could see the breeze from the tunnel ruffling the strands of her long, silver-white hair.  Her cheeks held no blush and her mouth was not pink. She looked strange and otherworldly, but still beautiful in a way that moved Bran for the first time since leaving Bloodraven’s cave.  He wanted her, he realized, and the feeling increased when she looked up and he saw her eyes. Bright blue, like flaming, cold stars. They drew him in, made him want her while the star-like heat in them repelled him.  

She looked up from the bundle she was carrying in her arms.  Bran had been so distracted by her face that he hadn’t noticed what she carried.  A baby - its tiny fist clutching her finger. She rocked it and cooed, smiling down, then looking up at the man in the crown, “I am here.”  

“Are you ready?,” he asked.  

“Always,” she came closer and gently placing the swaddled babe in the man’s arms, and giving it a final kiss.  A smile, unbidden, came to the man’s face when he looked down at the babe, “Be safe, my loves.”  

“We won’t be gone long,” he promised.  She leaned closer and he bent down, kissing her.  It wasn’t a gentle, loving kiss, it was one of passion and fire.  Tongues flickered in their mouths and their breath was sucked in hard through their noses.  They kissed and kissed, and the men who were still waiting on the stairs looked anywhere but at their lord.  It was the only sign of their discomfort, but when the man and woman separated, they seemed to look relieved.  

“I’ll be waiting here for you,” she said, patting his chest and giving him a final, quick kiss on the mouth, “Do tell my father hello.”  

The man nodded, and turned to the doorway.  He started down that long hall, and Bran followed.  There was not much of note about the hall. It was long and carved out of the solid rock on which the wall was built.  But this time, even though he was far away in time and space, Bran felt an odd tingle on his skin while he followed the man through.  It was not painful, just strange. Almost like all of his limbs had fallen asleep and were waking up. He wondered why he felt that way, but there was nothing he could do about it now.  

At the other end the man emerged into the night.  It was much brighter out here, with the full moon reflecting off the snow.  Behind them, the wall stretched into the sky, solid and shining in the moonlight.  In front of them were people. Six of them sat on horses, and one stood on the ground next to his horse.  They had the same look as the woman - snow-white skin, long pale hair, and bright blue eyes. Bran knew those eyes, they haunted his dreams both waking and not.  He knew the glow of them, but these men did not look like the others he’d seen. The others that came through the wall were ugly things, wrinkled and dead, with scraggly hair and mouths full of sharp teeth.  These men possessed the same kind of otherworldly beauty as the woman. The were one with the night, and one with the snow, and wearing armor that made them look as if they were shimmering when they walked. In the forest, they’d be nearly impossible to see.  On their backs or at their hips they had weapons made of ice so thin it could only be seen one one of them shifted and the moon reflected off the surface of it. Their horses, too, were different. White and beautiful, and very much alive. Their saddles and tack looked to be made of the same material as the armor.  

The man showed no fear of them, he simply walked to the man who was standing by his horse.  He inclined his head slightly in greeting, “Good evening, law-father. Your daughter sends her regards.”  

“She would not come?” 

“You know she cannot pass the wall now that she is on my side of it.”  

“I had hoped she would find a way around that.  No matter, let me see her. Let me see my granddaughter,” the voice spoke common, but sounded like the chill of winter.  It sounded like the comfort of the snow and the song of the crackling lake. Something stirred in Bran on hearing it, something almost like...nostalgia? Homesickness? That couldn’t be right, he hadn’t felt a fondness for anything, let alone a long-dead Other.  He pushed the troubling sensation to the side to focus on what he was seeing.  

“We have named her Moire.  Your daughter chose it,” he laid the baby in the arm of the tall, ethereal being in front of him.  

“It is of our kind,” there seemed to be a satisfied note in his voice, although it was hard for Bran to tell because the intonation was so strange to him.  It was like when Leaf had spoken to him, her voice was hard to connect to her mood.  

The man took a few steps back, “This fulfills our pact, then? One girl given for the one that was taken?” 

“Yes, but don’t forget our other bargain,” he replied, hoisting himself up on his horse.  

“The north remembers,” replied the man from the Night’s Watch, “But it will be my brother who fulfills those terms, not I.  Make sure your king knows that, and does not come here looking.”  

“He knows, human.  He knows,” the Other said no more, and turned with his guards, riding towards the forest with the swaddled child.  The man seemed to give it no more thought or attention, turning back towards the opening in the wall that he’d come from.  

Bran knew this was what he was meant to see because the song that always taunted him became louder again, more seductive.  It called him to the next place, the next time. He followed it, slipping from this time to somewhere further back.  

He stood outside of a small, wooden keep.  He was further south now, that much he could tell, but he wasn’t sure where exactly the song had brought him.  The ground was green and fertile, and forests rolled away on top of hills. Plumes of steam puffed into the air from somewhere in that forest, beyond this small keep.  There was a weirwood grove, too, rather than just one weirwood. There was something familiar about this place, but he could not place it, and while in the grip of the song he couldn’t peer through time.  He heard voices coming from within that grove, and he followed the hard-packed path into a clearing. There was a steaming black pond in a small clearing among the trees. All of the trees had faces, he realized.  All of them watched, their eyes in different directions. His eyes landed on one next to the lake, on a smaller, new tree. But, he realized with a start, he knew that face. It was the face of Winterfell’s heart tree, although now the tree was still young.  

_ Winterfell? I am in Winterfell? How far back in time must I be for it to have no stone keep, not even the First Keep.  This is before the wall, before the first Long Night, before Bran the Builder, before even house Stark. _

His attention then went to the two men standing on the shore of the pond, near a giant, ancient weirwood.  They had the look of each other, an older and younger. Likely a father and son. They weren’t wearing steel or carrying blades.  Instead, they wore bronze armor inscribed with runes Bran knew belonged to the first men. He knew that the swords that hung at their sides, though sheathed, would be bronze when drawn.  They wore little protection against the cold, and indeed, there was no snow on the ground. So, this decidedly placed this scene long before the wall went up. Probably before the white walkers, too, if it was this warm. In a time when true summer still came to the north sometimes. Who were these men that were arguing? He moved closer to them to see and hear them better.  

“They are our enemies!,” the older man growled, his voice raised.  Not in anger, but in heated debate.  

“They are our friends, some of them are family!,” the younger shot back, just as passionately, “They are kin to your people down in Cailin.”  

“That might be true, but they’ve still attacked.  We are closer kin to men, Joran, not the Children.  They aren’t men, and they practice dark magic. You know what they did to the lands down south!”  

“The arm? Well, wouldn’t you, if someone invaded your home and started to destroy it? Wouldn’t you do anything to drive them out, to stem the tide? If they started to flow over the walls right now, father, what would you do?” 

“Drive them back into the deep woods,” he allowed, “But these lands are no longer theirs.” 

“We share them.  They don’t attack us.  We have no reason to join with the southerners, who will retreat down south again after they have gotten us to help them, leaving us to clean up the mess,” the son’s face softened.  It was familiar to Bran, and he couldn’t remember why. The answer kept slipping from his mind, just out of his reach, “I know you miss her. So do I. But it was an accident.”  

“I can’t forgive them.  You know I can’t. Accident or not, they took her from us and I can’t make peace with them.  I can’t.”  

Joran sighed, his face full of sadness and the kind of exhaustion that only comes from a battle long fought, “Then you and Brandon will do what you think you must.”  

The older man didn’t answer, but his expression was the same as his son’s, “And what will you do?” 

“What I think I must,” he turned and left, heading straight for Bran.  It was then that Bran recognized him. The strawberry blonde hair, the dark eyes.  He’d seen the man once before - tied to a giant weirwood, gagged, terrified, surrounded by children, and having an obsidian dagger lodged in his chest.  

On that realization the song become louder again and the scene started to fade, but Bran no longer wanted to see more.  He wasn’t ready to face it yet. He wasn’t ready to see it. He didn’t know that he ever would be ready, but now he certainly wasn’t, so he pulled himself from the grip of the song and left it all behind.  He slipped from the skin of the trees back into his own and found himself back in the godswood in the Red Keep. Now, though, the kingsguard lined the path from the tree towards the keep.  

Six were there, and he knew the seventh would be soon.  He’d decided that it would be a good practice to choose one person from each of the remaining kingdoms, save the Iron Islands.  They did not make knights, and had no desire to be part of the Kingsguard. So in choosing his kingsguard he’d had some restrictions - no heirs, too many were killed in the wars.  No one who was married, or past their prime years. Bran would likely live a long time, and he wanted the members of his Kingsguard to stay with him for as long as was possible. And they must still be a knight, or someone Brienne felt was worth of knighthood.  

Brienne, being from Tarth, represented the Stormlands.  Pod was from house Payne, in the Westerlands. Bran thought that particularly lucky, because it meant he didn’t have to include a Lannister.  They were still numerous and prone to causing problems. Hoster Blackwood, already a knight, was the third son of Lord Blackwood and a veteran of the war of the five kings on the side of the Starks and Tullys.  Bran liked that the Blackwoods still worshipped the old gods, and favored them over the Brackens because of it. So Hos became the representative for the Riverlands. The reach had proven difficult, despite its size.  But one of the exiled lords of house Peake had survived Dany’s decimation of the Golden Company. They were exiled and the Peakes still controlled Starpike, so he was heir to nothing, but Bran’s father had told him many times that extending a hand to life a vanquished enemy can turn them into a fast friend.  So he’d given Torman Peake a place on the kingsguard and lifted the exile he’d inherited from his father. His family had proved grateful to be reunited with their kin, especially now that they did not need to figure out where he belonged in the order of inheritance.  

Jacelyn Bywater, a man born and raised in the Crownlands, had previously been the commander of the Goldcloaks.  He’d served the city loyally, and from the tales that reached Brienne’s ears, had helped as many as he could during the sack.  He was older than Bran would have liked, but Brienne insisted they needed someone with some experience and some connection to the commons, so he’d been given a place as a reward for his bravery during the sack.  A choice from the Vale had proven especially difficult because so many of the houses there had suffered and lost during the wars. Bran had even considered taking someone from the hill tribes, but Tyrion advised against it, saying that it would be futile anyway.  They’d never leave their mountains. Eventually, a choice had presented itself in the form of a young woman recommended by, of all people, Robin Arryn. Her name was Mya Stone, and she was Robert Baratheon’s oldest bastard. She was adopted into the Royces of the Gates of the Moon long ago, and taught to fight alongside the other skills she possessed.  Brienne immediately took a liking to the fierce, independent young woman and knighted her after assessing her skills. She was perhaps a little underqualified, but no more than Pod was, and they’d spent so long looking for someone from the Vale to fill the role that they’d overlooked it.  

The seventh member had been chosen on the recommendation of Arianne Martel.  She’d put forth Archibald Yronwood as a candidate from Dorne. He was the nephew of lord Yronwood, and he’d become an experienced fighter in Essos.  After he returned he’d gotten bored and prone to causing trouble. He was a bit too ribald for Brienne’s tastes, and a bit too stupid for Tyrion’s, but he was a skilled fighter and loyal besides.  So he’d been knighted, too. He also had the distinction of being largest, strongest person on the Kingsguard, and because of this Bran had him temporarily filling the position of the King’s Justice.  He wanted someone who was strong enough to perform quick, clean executions. Making the convicted suffer wasn’t something Bran wanted to do, and while he would have swung the sword himself, he was unable to.  Archibald, though, had agreed to perform the service on the condition that someone else be installed as soon as possible. He was big and strong but he wasn’t mean, and he disliked the black cells. He disliked executing people.  

Unfortunately for him, today was a work day for Archibald.  He entered from the far end of the grove, behind a man with his hands tied behind his back.  The man was thin, his brown hair long and shaggy, and his brown eyes hollow. He wore rough-spun pants and a cheap linen shirt, and his hands were tied behind his back.  He looked almost dazed to be seeing the sun again, and he kept blinking up at the sky and frowning. He made his way down the walk towards the king, but it was almost as if his feet were walking that way against his will.  Behind him loomed Archibald, six-foot-six and built like a barrel. The sun shined off his bald head, and a grimace was carved into his features. His white cloak fluttered behind him, accompanying the gentle scrape of the plates of his enameled white armor and the thump of his heavy boots.  A sword was at his side, but it wasn’t a Westerosi blade. He used a heavy, long blade that had a gentle curve to it. Not like the araks the Dothraki used, but one long curve. On the other hip he carried a warhammer. He favored the hammer for battle, but things like this required a sword.  

Aside from the sounds of the two men walking the path, the grove was silent.  Even the wind seemed to still, and the ravens that always crowded around Bran were holding their peace.  The prisoner looked more and more withdrawn as he walked closer, and it was obvious he’d accepted his fate.  What else could he do? He was thin and not that tall and had been in the black cells before and after his trial.  There were seven members of the kingsguard and a king who could slip his skin whenever he liked. There was no way he would be able to save his own life.  

When they arrived, they commenced the ceremony with little pomp.  They’d done enough of them that it seemed unnecessary, so Bran said the words, “Davyan, you have tried and convicted of murder.  The penalty for murder is death. So we gather here to execute that sentence. I give your flesh and your spirit to the will of the old gods, and the vessels they inhabit.”  

Bran nodded at Archibald, and he pushed Davyan down to his knees in front of the weirwood.  The man did not sob, or beg, he simply stared with the glassy-eyed look he’d had since he’d walked onto the path.  Archibald drew his sword, and in one quick motion it was over. The body fell forward, blood splashing the white flesh of the tree.  It watered the ground, sinking into the dirt, flowing in thick pumps from the stump of the man’s neck. Bran watched it spread, and he tasted iron, and felt himself grow a little stronger.  


	15. Daenerys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Meereen, Dany has entered a deep depression as her argument with Daario made all of the guilt from her actions come crashing down on her head. Grief and love and pain have become the entirety of her world. But although he was angry, Daario still cares for her, and tries to help her find her way in the darkness. So she follows the lifeline to a new direction, and a new sense of purpose. She follows it all the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Character deveeeeelopment wheee. I hope you like angst. But yes. This is a character development chapter and hopefully by the end I've got Dany's head screwed on right again. 
> 
> FAIR WARNING: There is sex in this chapter! It is far, FAR less graphic than anything else I've got in my account. Like R rating at *worst*. But it is there (well the fic IS marked mature and it IS GoT.). 
> 
> There miiiiight be a bit of Jonerys there too. At the end. >.> <.<
> 
> If you have any questions, *please* ask them. It helps me know whether I've been too obtuse or not and helps me be a better writer. I want to know that I'm getting across what I'm trying to get across.

“Dany,” the voice of the intruder was soft and gentle in the way that people are soft and gentle when handling a weapon they fear will hurt them, “It’s been over a moon’s turn, and you’re still cooped up in here.”  

She turned her head to look at Daario.  She’d been staring out the window at the city of Meereen, but a change of view didn’t matter.  She wasn’t really seeing what was in front of her anyway. She only saw smoke and fire and she only heard screams, “Are you going to try and send me away?” 

He didn’t react to the sharpness in her voice.  He knew it was only an act. Instead he came and sat down opposite her, his face open and honest, “No.  I wouldn’t. I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Drogon still made his nest atop the pyramid, “But I think it might be time for you to at least talk to someone.  Talk to me.”  

“So you can taste my grief, too? So you can use it to betray me later?,” she wanted him to leave her alone with all of the filth in her soul.  

“No.  Because you need a friend.  You need someone who knows you to listen to you.  These thoughts, whatever they are, they’re a boil full of pus in your mind.  It needs to be drained so you can heal.”  

“I’m not meant to heal.  I’m not even meant to be alive.  I don’t _deserve_ to be alive.”  

“A great many people don’t deserve to be alive, and yet...,” he trailed off.  He waited for her to reply for several minutes before sighing sadly and moving to get up after she returned to staring out the window.  

“Wait,” her voice was so soft that he barely heard it.  That one quiet word held a world of pain and isolation and grief.  He settled back down and waited. He stayed with her, quiet, waiting for her to decide to speak.  The sun moved in the sky and the shadows crept across the floor. He waved his stewards away more than once with a subtle shake of his head.  The afternoon came, sun blazing high in the sky, soaking the world in fiery heat. It might be winter, but Meereen was always hot. The heat seemed to give her strength and she spoke again, “I keep thinking about the prophecy.”  

“Which one?,” he asked, not moving.  He barely breathed, afraid that he’d scare her into silent grief once more.  

“‘Three fires you must light; one for life, and one for death, and one to love.  Three mounts you must ride; one to bed, one to dread, and one to love. Three treasons you will know; once for blood, and once for gold, and once for love’,” she quoted it from memory.  

“Who said those things to you?” 

“The warlocks in the house of the undying.”  

“They are charlatans who spend all of their time drugged--” 

“My family has a long history with prophecy.  I only live because Denys the Dreamer saw the doom.  I can’t simply ignore them. There were more. Quaithe told me ‘to go north, you must go south.  To reach the west you must go east. To go forward, you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow’.”  

“They’re just words, Dany, just--” 

“No!,” her voice was sharp, the pain in it was the edge of a blade, “I lit three fires.  One to life - my dragons. One to death - the Khals. And I set fire to...to...the city,” her eyes closed briefly as the pain washed over her, “For the love of Missendei.  Do you know her last words, Daario?,” her head snapped to him.  

“No,” he replied, plying her with patience and care.  

“ _Dracarys_.  Burn them, she told me.  My sweet, peaceful Missendei.  She said to light that fire, in tribute to her.”  

“Do you feel you shouldn’t have listened?” 

“I don’t know.  There were so many other things I could have done.  Things that wouldn’t have killed so many innocents,” there it was, the soul-deep pain and grief that colored her every action.  She didn’t dwell there, though, she wasn’t ready to yet, “I rode my silver to bed, and I rode Drogon to dread, but when have I ridden to love, Daario? When have I ever been allowed to love freely?” 

She looked at him, wishing he had an answer, but he just looked sad and said, “I wish I knew.”  

“Never.  I could not love Drogo, because he was too wild to stay and love me back.  I could not love you, because I had to take my throne. I could not love the throne, because power cannot love you back.  I could not love Jon, because he was too afraid. And yet, all three of you, I love you all still.” 

“One doesn’t supplant the other?,” his voice was carefully neutral.  Whatever he felt on the topic of their failed relationship, he was keeping it to himself.  

“Love isn’t like that.  Not for me. I loved Viserys, and I hated him.  I loved Rhaegar, but I hated him for dying. I loved my father, but I hated him for being mad.  I hated him for the wildfire, because it only made what I did even worse. It exploded under the heat of Drogon’s flame.  Love has always been a duality for me. It always exists alongside something else,” she shrugged, “No mount to love, then.  The witch, Mirri Maz Duur, she betrayed me for blood. She took Drogo from me to avenge her people. Jorah betrayed me for so many reasons.  Barristan, too. Tyrion and Varys betrayed me, although I can admit that they thought they were doing the right thing. But Jon,” her voice caught, choking on his name, “that was for love.  I have wondered so often if it hurt him to do it. If he cried while he slid that blade between my ribs. How many women have opened themselves up to a man, only to die in his arms?,” her voice was thoughtful, far away in the landscape of her mind.  

“Too many,” Daario answered.  She could taste his sadness, too.  She didn’t know what put it there, but she knew that the regret she heard was personal.  

“I am one among many.  I have known too much betrayal.  Too much sadness. Too much grief.  And every success I have leads to more pain and suffering.  I've inflicted it, too.”  

“The world does not know how to make space for dragons.”  

She sighed, acknowledging some agreement with his statement, but returned to her train of thought, “I went to the north, but to get there I had to go south around Valyria.  Around my ancestral homeland. I went from beyond the wall, south to Dragonstone, and then back north to Winterfell. I moved forward, but to do so I had to go back to Dragonstone.  I’ve passed beneath the shadow, Daario. I’ve died and been to Asshai. It’s time I get to touch the light.”  

“And what is the light?” 

“I don’t know.  I have never,” she hesitated, gathering her thoughts, “I have always had a goal.  I’ve never had time to stop and look back and reflect, because when I do I become lost. I only consider my decisions long enough to know if they were the right ones, to know if I should repeat them if the situation arises again.  That is part of ruling - learning from your mistakes. But introspection has always seemed to me the tool of people who have no direction and no goals, and so I’ve only employed it in situations where it is absolutely necessary.”  

“At the risk of your anger, I am going to speak plainly.  Perhaps,” he still hesitated over his words, so Dany knew she really would not like them, “Prior to burning King’s Landing was the time for deeper introspection."  

She huffed a tiny laugh, the closest she’d come to a real laugh in weeks, “I’ve been having similar thoughts.  I’ve nothing inside me but grief. I’ve always had it. The grief of the death of my family, the loss of our homes, the loss of the throne...even Summerhall - that happened long before my birth, but it has marred my family’s joy since the day it occurred.  Every event in my life has been tinged with sadness, and I’ve never gotten the only thing I truly wanted: home. Peace.” 

“You could have...could...,” he closed his eyes, clearly not able to finish the sentence, and motioned for her to continue.  

“I’ve been thinking about my family and our legacy.  We only survived by depending on each other. We survived the doom because Aenar Targaryen believed his daughter Daenys when she told him that it was coming.  He believed her and sold all his Valyrian holdings and went to Dragonstone with his family. We lived there, content, in peace, until Aegon got it in his head to conquer the seven kingdoms.  He saw his dragons and thought of nothing but power, and the very first thing it cost him was Rhaenys. Not Visenya, who he married for duty, but Rhaenys - who he loved. That was the cost of the throne.  And we have been paying for that wretched pile of swords ever since,” she shouted the last thing. There it was, the fire, the Targaryen anger, the temper. But now it was aimed at a different target. It was aimed at all of the pressures and people who had turned her towards it.  At the man who built it with the power of the dragons, and at all the men who had sat their Targaryen asses on it ever since, and all of the things that had been done and lost just to keep it without making any true change in the world. Had any good actually come from Targaryen reign? The blood on her family’s hands would never come out.  Not of she somehow managed to birth a thousand thousand sons and daughters who did only good in the world.  Most of all, the anger was at herself for all she'd done to gain it.  

“Has it been worth it?” 

“No.  It hasn’t.  It wasn’t worth the cost of my life.  It wasn’t worth the cost of the thousands of lives lost,” she let the moments settle, let the seconds drip into the space left by her words, “I used to think that the power of a dragon was freedom.  If you’d ever flown, you’d know. It _is_ freedom.  But how else would I, a woman who exists in a world of men constantly trying to undermine me, bully me, steal my accomplishments from me, look at something like true power?  You can’t force me to leave Meereen unless I want to go because I have a dragon. He is freedom. True freedom. And what did I do with it? Attempt to yolk myself to a thing that has only ever brought pain.  It’s time that I found some light. I don’t know what that means just yet, but it’s time I leave and seek it out.  It's time I try to set things truly right.”  

“May I make a suggestion?,” he asked.  She shrugged and nodded, “Go find him,” she opened her mouth to protest, “Wait, let me explain.  He inflicted pain on you that hasn’t healed, and I don’t think it can until you confront him. You don’t have to love him, Dany, but he is your only remaining family.  And I don’t think you can touch the light, whatever that means, until you deal with him face to face.  Until he deals with you, too.”  

“You know, you’re surprisingly wise for a sell-sword,” there it was, a little bit of herself.  A little bit of the old Dany.  

“I’m not wise, I just can’t afford to keep paying to feed the dragon sleeping on the roof,” he smiled so he’d know she was joking, and she smiled back.  

That night, after he’d left, she had her servants clean her and brush her hair until it shone.  She left it loose and down, and clothed herself only in a soft silken robe. She crept into Daario’s quarters, only to find him hunched over his desk, reading parchment by candlelight.  She missed him too much, then. A keen ache inside her in a place that was broken, and not ever repaired. He had been a piece of light in a long stretch of darkness. Everything between the house with the red door and her death was darkness, and a few comforting, shining stars.  Pieces of light to guide her.  

“Daario,” she said, her voice soft so it didn’t startle him.  

“Ye--,” he looked up and caught sight of her.  The way she was dressed and the way she was groomed.  The look of her stopped him short, and he couldn’t hide what passed through his eyes, or what he thought of her, “Dany.”  

She came closer, moving slowly, letting him drink in the sight of her, and then rested her hand on his shoulder, “I need to say so much to you.  Things like hello, I’m sorry, thank you, I...I love you.”  

“And goodbye,” he whispered, standing.  

“That too,” her voice was just as quiet, “But so many other things that I don’t have words for, and so I can’t tell you them.”  

“But you can show me?,” he stood in front of her, so close that she could feel the heat radiating from him.  She’d forgotten how tall he was, how much larger than her. But he never loomed over her, never made her feel smaller.  Never hurt her, never made her find forgiveness, never made her swallow her pain and anger because she needed him, never cut her and fill the wound with love.  

“I think so.  I hope so,” she looked up at him, taking away the masks she always wore.  They were habit now. Being queen made them too natural. She let him see under them, and hoped he understood.  His hands clenched at his sides as if he wished something were in them. Perhaps he was wishing _she_ was in them, but he didn’t reach for her.  

“Why are you sorry?,” he’d picked that out of all the words.  That one.  

“For _everything_ ,” she breathed the last word, raw and vulnerable.  

“Tell me.  Dany, I need to hear it.”  

“For the fire, for the blood, for the killing, for vengeance, for being so blind,” she took a steadying breath, “For leaving you the way I did.  For hurting you, for hurting Meereen. For cutting you, and making you plaster over the hole with love and loyalty and not being worthy of forgiveness.  For not telling you a thousand things and one that would have made it easier for you to love me.”  

He touched his forehead to hers, eyes closed, and cupped her face in his hands.  She leaned into it. She couldn’t help it. There was warmth and comfort in those hands.  Respite, “No, Dany. It was all too easy to love you. Bright, shining queen. Beautiful and vulnerable.  All too easy.”  

She waited.  He had to be the one to push forward, had to be the one to kiss her, because it _was_ goodbye.  They both knew it would be.  They’d said as much. One, last, sweet goodbye.  She barely wanted to breath, she didn’t try to move.  She soaked up the feel of his closeness, the leather-and-spice smell of him, the warm summer of his soul.  _Remember this_ , she told herself, _remember that this is fire and warmth.  Never forget what it feels like_.  

And then, she could taste him.  She could taste the summerwine he’d been drinking on his lips, the sweetness on his tongue.  She could taste the metallic tang that was just _him_ , and feel his hunger.  She could feel the leashed power of his movements, the care in his handling.  Like she was glass, and so she grabbed him and pulled him closer. Closer, to spread the salt of his skin on hers.  

 _Drown me_.  

_Burn me whole, my summer sun._

It was easy for them to find the bed, easy for them to lose their clothes.  Easy to feel the texture of him under her palms. They still fit together, the curves and planes of their bodies matched as they always had.  Easy to remember the little nuances of each other. There, the spot on his neck that made him groan when she ran her tongue over it. They way he liked the urgency of her teeth on his skin.  The way he touched her and tasted her and remembered where his tongue would do the most good. The way he feasted on the honey between her legs. The way his fingers danced and knew where to go.  This was a thing they remembered, a thing they’d always been good at. The slip of skin and the stick of sweat. She liked to watch him, she liked to look at how the light of fire carved his body into curves and shadows.  He was still well-honed, the ruling of the city didn’t make him neglect the physical training he loved so much. So she relished the sight of the muscles moving below his brown skin, and the silk of his hair between her fingers.  And when he was inside her, so deep and so full, he remembered how to move and how to hold her hips and how she liked it slow and then fast. He remembered how to make her come, how wring the dripping pleasure from her. He remembered how to take of her body, too, and it was easy for him to leave a piece of himself inside her.  Easy and good and sweet. Like summer.  

And they slept.  She slept in nothing but inky blackness.  No dreams woke her screaming, no worries kept her from falling to sleep, nothing.  She was only Dany, only herself, and she finally slept the whole night through.  

The next morning, she woke before he did.  The sun was just beginning to paint everything with golden light when she slipped back into her room to dress.  She’d gathered her things the night before: her eggs, the clothes Daario had bought her, and the gold he’d given her.  The wooden case with the scroll in it. All of it. She dressed in Dothraki riding leathers that he’d been kind enough to buy her to replace the rags she’d arrived in, and she made her way back to his room.  

He was still sleeping, and she laid her bags next to the bed.  She sat on the edge of it and the movement finally woke him, letting him turn to look at her with sleep-fogged eyes, “Is it time?”  

“It’s time,” she said, smiling at him, “Goodbyes require leavings.” 

“I suppose they do.” 

“You could come with me,” her heart ached, just a little, but it was a good ache.  The ache of want and feeling that she hadn’t felt in so long.  

“I would, but you see, I was given a job and my queen will be very angry with me if I don’t remain to do it,” she captured his sleepy smile in her mind, filing it away in the box that contained the red door and the lemon tree.  Things that made her happy. But she knew, deep down, that she’d stagnate here. That she’d stagnate and start to burn everything around her without an outlet. That it was too easy and too comfortable, and she needed a challenge and a goal.  She’d find neither in the peace of Meereen, so she would leave them here, knowing that the city and Daario existed in peace and prosperity and she had at least done this one good thing.  

“I have a gift for you,” she said, digging into her bag.  It was one of Drogon’s eggs. It was shades of lavender and purple, shot through with veins sparkling silver and gold.  She held it out to him, and he took it gently, reverently, “It’s one of a Drogon’s.”  

“Not a ‘he’ after all, then.” 

She shrugged, “Who can tell with dragons?” 

“Will it...will it hatch?,” she couldn’t tell by his expression whether he wanted it to or not.  She hoped so, because she thought the colors would make a lovely dragon.  

“I don’t know.  None have yet, but I don’t think that flying around in my bag is the best place to make a dragon hatch.  My family used to put them in the cradles of our babes to hatch, but I found a scroll in Asshai claiming that dragons are creatures of the natural world.  So they must have ways of rearing their young. It may hatch, it may not. Heat will help. Either way, whether it lives and becomes part of Meereen or simply a pretty rock you can sell, it is a way to pay for some of the damage I’ve caused.  It can’t fix everything, but keep it and remember me, even if you never see me again,” she stood, gathering her things.  

“And will I? See you again?”  

“Who knows where the winds of fate blow.  I can’t ever repay you for what you’ve done.  You helped me heal, Daario, and that is worth more to me than I can show.”  

“Where will you go now?” 

She looked out the window at the rising sun, “To find the light.”  

 

***

 

She flew overland to the west, across the Dothraki Sea, staying well north of Volantis.  She crossed the Rhoyne, and went into the Disputed lands towards Tyrosh. She encouraged Drogon to gorge himself when he could, because she needed him strong and healthy.  He grew on the trip, she could tell he was larger. She shared his kills and stayed fed that way, eventually learning some of the skill needed to cook for herself. She’d never had to do it before, but she found that she enjoyed it.  She liked creating something, and then tasting the real fruits of her labor. They flew at night because his scales were hard to see against the black of the sky, and slept in the day. They crossed the narrow sea at the Stones, staying as hidden has she could manage.  There’d be rumors, of course, of the great black dragon prowling the south of Westeros, but no one had spotted her yet to spread the news of her return.  

They flew north from the arm of Dorne into the mistwood, always keeping to the coast, and as far away from towns and cities as she could.  The hardest part was avoiding detection by Storm’s End, and by the merchant ships that once again came and went from Blackwater Bay. It got colder, too, forcing her to give up her Dothraki leathers in favor of warmer furs.  But finally, they made it to Dragonstone. They flew into the castle bailey under the cover of night, settling in the wide open space. No footprints marred the fresh-fallen snow, and Dany took that as a positive sign. Of course, living alone in a huge keep like Dragonstone would be a challenge she didn’t know if she was ready for, but it felt good to come home.  The smoke, salt, and sulphur of the castle were fused into her blood and they called to her.  

She left Drogon to his own devices, and entered the central keep with the huge stone drum tower.  Lighting a torch, she made her way inside. As she walked the halls, it quickly became apparent that no one had returned to Dragonstone after she’d left.  Debris had blown in through the windows, and no one cleaned it. Furniture and doors stood open, and in the positions where their previous occupants left them.  She heard rats skittering through the halls, just out of view. Her banners still hung where they’d been, limp and dusty, as Stannis’s banners had been when she’d torn them down.  She had a strange urge to pull down the black-and-red of her house, but she left it there for now.  

She climbed stairs until her legs were sore, and still there was more to the tower.  So she kept going, spiraling higher and higher, until she reached the landing for the top floor.  From there. The only thing up here was the room with the painted table, so the steps emptied directly into it.  It was under the roof, huge, with windows that pointed in each direction. In the center, the long painted table that resembled westeros shined in the light of her torch.  The figures from the last war were still there, in the exact positions she’d left them while they’d planned their attack on King’s Landing. In her mind’s eye she saw all of them, her allies and friends, even the ones who were gone.  Their ghost lived here, but they didn’t frighten her anymore. She could let Missendei rest, because Grey Worm was happy on his little island. She could let go of Tyrion and Varys’s betrayals because both of them had been right - she’d been too overcome with grief and anger and too blind to see what they’d been trying to tell her.  She could only see visions of the fire of her dragon burning Cersei where she stood. That old anger rose within her, now, looking at the figure of a woman inside the walls of King’s Landing. It curled and caressed her, tempting her with its song when she grabbed that little figurine. The song of flame and flight and blood. Of things that belonged to her, that she was owed, that she would take by any means necessary.  It made her blood run hot and her hand tighten on her torch.  

And then it passed.  She had a monster inside her.  Everyone did, but hers was larger and harder to wrangle.  Hers had a face and teeth and wings and claws. Hers was harder to master.  But master it, she had, and the anger settled back down inside her, a warm friend in her belly.  Friends, yes, that’s what she was. Friends with her own monster. Let the feelings come, let her feel them, and let them burn through her and cleanse her.  In their wake, there was quiet. She put the piece back on the the table. Cersei was dead, and it was useless to be angry at a dead woman. There were more immediate things for her to do.  

She went to the eastern window first, and took a good, long look at the ocean.  The sun was rising, now, and this had once been one of her favorite sights. She put that in the box with Daario and the house with the red door.  Sunrises viewed from the top of the tower in her home, the rays reflecting on a glittering sea. That made her happy. That was home.  

South was next.  Where she’d come from.  Go south to go north. And it was behind her.  

To the western window.  Towards King’s Landing; so close she could almost see it past Driftmark.  The wound she needed to heal. The light she’d figure out how to touch. Her biggest sin.  

Then she went to the northern window, looking towards Crackclaw Point, and beyond that the other lands of Westeros.  North and north, up to the wall. Up to _him_.  The man whose name she could not yet say, whose ghost she refused to see.  The one person she most hated...and most loved. Her only living family.  

“Jon Snow,” she whispered, finally letting herself say the words, mean the name, letting the remembrance and awareness of him creep over her skin.  If Daario was summer, Jon was winter. Daario was spice, and sweat, and leather, and summerwine. Jon was deep, rich ale, the oil and leather of his steel, the freshness of the forest, and so very, deeply male.  

“Aegon Targaryen,” she let herself say the other words.  The ones that destroyed them. The ones that ended with a knife in her ribs.  She couldn’t forgive him. Not when the thought of that knife was so fresh. But she couldn’t forget him, either, and she couldn’t ignore him.  

That night when she slept, there was no peace.  There was only dreams of him. Dreams of his dragon falling from the sky.  Dreams of them together, hard and urgent and rough, the wolf’s teeth in her shoulder and her neck, marking her.  _Mine_ , it said.  _You are mine._ There was her own mark, the dragon’s teeth, her claws down his back.  _And you are mine_.  There was the kindness, the laughter, the challenge of him.  They tamed the wildness in each other. They were equals in a way no one else ever had been.  They claimed each other, body and soul, hard, and fast, and deep. And when she finally woke the next morning, her own wetness made her thighs slick, and her whole body ached with a need she couldn’t fill on her own.  

Love was patching the hole he’d made in her side, making her thread the edges together with forgiveness.  But had she excised the poison from the wound, first, or was she just sealing it inside?


	16. Samwell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand, we're back! A short Sam chapter where we get the more supernatural elements of the plot rolling again. Sam and Alleras have gone to Hightower and returned to Horn Hill - instead of the citadel - full of uncomfortable information. But what do they do with it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thesis is done and has been turned in so I've now got time for creative things! This chapter wasn't fun to write, but I needed a bridge between Sam's last chapter and where his storyline is going that won't result in me having to infodump in his next chapter. I wrote a whole long thing about the the base of the hightower, but honestly it was just reading like a D&D session and I realized I didn't really need it in there. I was just adding it because of my own curiosity about the old base of the Hightower. Since I've been feeling like things are slowing down a little and the pacing needs to pick up again, I skipped it and went with this instead. 
> 
> Also! I decided to create a twitter account for this writing account if anyone wants to follow over there: https://twitter.com/serendipityspe1 It'll let me update people in ways that AO3 doesn't really let me because I can't tell you all anything without adding a new chapter. I can't even be like "hey sorry no I haven't quit writing this, I've been writing my thesis and it had to get done and I had literally zero time for writing fiction". Also, if you read any of my other stories, you'll see that some times I post some art at the beginning of those chapters, so I post that on Twitter too, usually before I post new chapters here. So far I haven't felt the desire to put anything up there that's NSFW, and if I change my mind on that I'll post before I do it. You won't get random porn on your dash if you follow me, you'll have warning. Some of it might be a little risque - but nothing really explicit. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you all have been well. <3

Fire crackled, logs burning merrily in the hearth behind him.  One of the servants had thrown some herbs on it, as they always did, and the smell of home suffused the room.  Warmth and light came from that hearth. Across the room, Sam’s son yawned and squeaked, sleeping in Gilly’s arms.  It was late, and Little Sam had been sent to bed hours ago. Dickon, though, was only a few months old and not yet in the habit of sleeping far from his mother.  Another Sam and another Dickon. Sometimes he wished he’d named his son something else, or that he’d had a daughter instead. Sam didn’t precisely believe in omens, but given The Others, he didn’t exactly  _ not _ believe in them either.  He hoped that his sons had a better chance than he and his brother’d had.  

“What are you going to do?,” Alleras asked from his seat kitty-corner to Sam’s.  They were both staring at the hunk of black rock sitting in the middle of the wooden table in the dining hall at Horn Hill.  They’d gotten permission to retrieve a sample and look around under the High tower, and what they’d found had been disconcerting at best.  They’d come straight back to Horn Hill, completely eschewing the citadel. A messenger had been sent back, citing the reason as “family business”.  

“I don’t know yet.”  

“Can’t you just take it to king Bran?,” Gilly said, her voice quiet so as to not wake Dickon.  

Alleras watched Sam as he mulled it over and then said, “I don’t know.”  

“I think I have an idea,” Alleras’s voice contained something it didn’t normally contain - trepidation.  A lack of surety as to what he was about to suggest, “There is someone in King’s Landing who can help us.”  

“Who do you know in King’s Landing?,” the oily black stone on the table was momentarily forgotten as Sam focused on Alleras.  He looked at the youth, really looked at him. His dark eyes were troubled, dark smudges under them from a lack of sleep. They’d both been having nightmares.  Alleras was a bubbly, effervescent, and outgoing youth. Brave to the point of brashness. The exact opposite of Sam’s quiet strength and distaste for battle. But that had been dimmed since coming out of the place beneath the tower, and in this moment he looked even more unhappy.  Indecision was writ in every line in his posture.  

Finally, he closed his eyes briefly and let out a small breath, “If we’re to do this, there is something you must know, and I can’t tell you until we decide on a course of action.  Do we have other options?” 

“Well, I don’t think we should go to Bran.  We just don’t know if that’s safe. Going to Winterfell and showing queen Sansa would take too long, and going to castle Black even longer.  We can’t go to the citadel because then the Archmasters would just take it.” 

“Aren’t you in charge of them?,” Gilly asked, voice quiet so as to not wake Dickon.  

“Yes.  Sort of.  I can be stripped of my title and the archmaesters would be happy to do it.  They resent Bran’s intervention in forging my chain and appointing me in the first place,” Sam fidgeted in his hard, wooden seat, “It’s times like these I miss maester Aemon the most.”  

“Who was maester Aemon?,” Alleras asked.  

“The maester at the wall who I learned from.”  

“Sounds like a Targeryen name.”  

“That’s because he was a Targeryen.  Brother of Egg - King Aemon.”  

“Wow.  Lofty person to have at the wall.”  

Sam nodded, changing the subject back to their current predicament.  They had important information, they needed to tell someone, and they had no idea who to tell.  Sam would have liked to tell Jon, but he had no idea where Jon was. The north was a big place, and getting up there through the snows might prove all but impossible.  He didn’t know, he’d never been to the north in the winter, “We could tell Tyrion.”  

Alleras thought about it, and Gilly silently watch them.  Her gentle, steadfast presence always made Sam think more clearly.  He missed her a great deal when he was in the citadel. Alleras made a non-commital noise and said, “He’s a Lannister.  They scheme. He doesn’t need more information to scheme with.”  

“He still might be our best choice.”  

“Either road leads to the Red Keep.”  

“Your person is in the Red Keep?,” Sam asked, and Alleras nodded.  

“I have a...friend...who is highly placed at court.”  

“We’ll never be able to get into and out of the Red Keep without someone noticing.”  

“Why does that matter?,” Gilly interjected.  

“What do you mean,” Sam asked, looking at her.  

“Well it’s your job to go to the Red Keep.  We’ll just do what we always do when we visit, and you can talk to other people while you’re there.  It’s been a few months since you went to them council meetings anyways.”  

Gilly, as usual, had a special talent for seeing the simplest and most expedient solution to a problem.  Alleras and Sam exchanged a look. Sam shrugged, and Alleras said, “It’s not a half bad idea actually. You’ve been tutoring me for months now.  No one is going to blink if you bring an apprentice with you.”  

“Then I guess we’re going to King’s Landing.  Gilly, I know I just got home, I’m sorry to leave you again--” 

“You’re not leaving me.”  

Sam blinked, taking a moment to decide what to say, “Gilly, you just had a baby, you can’t go to King’s Landing with me.” 

“Samwell Tarley I made it all the way down out of the north to Winterfell and then through the fight with the undead and here with a baby at the breast, and that was only a few days after I’d had Little Sam.  I’m going to King’s Landing.”  

The thought of having her there, exposed to the dangerous scorpion pit that was King’s Landing, made Sam’s heart leap into his mouth.  But he recognized the set of her mouth, the straightness of her spine, and the flint in her eyes. She was fully prepared to dig her heels in on this, and truth be told - Sam wanted her along even with the danger of it.  He was always better when she was there, “Can we at least get a wetnurse for Dickon? I can think clearer if I know he’s safe here with Little Sam.”  

“I don’t like leaving him behind.”  

“Gilly, just because you came down from the north doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard.  I...I know I couldn’t give you this kind of help before, but now I can. You’re an adult and you can choose for yourself, but let me keep the children safe here.”  

She hesitated, but nodded, “But I get to choose.”  

“Well,” Alleras said, “that marital issue settled, I might as well drop this on you now.  My name isn’t Alleras, it’s Sarella Sand.”  

Sam blinked, the information flicking on several lights in his mind, “You’re a girl?” 

Alleras shrugged, “They wouldn’t let me study at the citadel otherwise.  But somehow I don’t think you’d kick me out for being a girl.”  

Sam shook his head, “Sand...so you are from Dorne, but that’s a bastard’s surname.  Who...?” 

“Oberyn and a Summer Island ship’s captain.  I don’t know her name, he took me with him when I was born.”  

“So your friend in King’s Landing is Arianne Martell,” Sam didn’t know everything that happened in King’s Landing, but Tyrion told him the important things via raven.  He knew Arienne showed up to claim her seat on the Small Council. She’d brought her cousins, “--Wait, are you one of the Sand Snakes?” 

The cocky grin that Sam had come to associate with Alleras spread across his - her? - face, “My sisters and I have been known to go by something similar when we’re in trouble, yes.”  

Sam remembered the stories - Doran Martell, prince of Dorne at the time, sent his brother Oberyn to King’s Landing for Joffrey’s wedding and to serve on the Small Council.  Oberyn brought with him his long-time paramour, Ellaria, and then promptly died while fighting the Mountain. He’d also been survived by eight daughters - the Sand Snakes. That was the end of what Sam knew about the Sand Snakes; Dorne had never been of much interest to him.  He wasn’t much sure what to make of this admission.  

“Should I call you Sarella then?,” that seemed the easiest question to ask.  

She shrugged, “In private, if you like.  I would not suggest it where others can hear, and never inside the bounds of Oldtown.”  

“What are the Sand Snakes?,” Gilly asked.  Sam had forgotten that she wouldn’t know.  

“One of the lords of Dorne - Oberyn Martell - he had eight bastard daughters.  They’re called the Sand Snakes,” he answered her.  

Gilly frowned, “I thought nobles didn’t like bastards.”  

It was Sarella who answered, “Dorne sees no difference between bastards and true-born.  We value all. Man, woman, inbetween, bastard or not, Dorne values them all.”  

“We should go there,” Gilly muttered.  

“Well, it’s also very hot, and very sandy,” Sam said, frowning.  He didn’t really want to go to Dorne, “And besides, we have another problem.”  

All of their gazes flicked to the stone on the table.  It was just a piece of misshapen slag, but it held important information.  Sarella’s fingers tapped rhythmically against the table and she sounded resigned, “To King’s Landing, then.”  

The next morning, they set about preparing.  Sam sent for, and found, several women to be Dickon’s wet nurse.  Gilly talked with them and selected one, while also overseeing the packing of their things for travel and leaving instructions for the household.  She’d really taken to being in charge of the keep, and found that she enjoyed the rhythm of life there. She knew everyone who worked for them by name, and was friends with some of the ladies in the kitchen.  Sam had no problems with this. When his father had owned Horn Hill, it had been a place constantly on-edge, fearing the displeasure of its master. Now it was filled with laughter and people, with children playing in the snow.  It was nearly idyllic, something Sam never would have associated with it before. Sometimes he still saw the ghosts of his childhood in the stones of Horn Hill, but those instances were becoming less and less as Gilly’s touch became evident all over the keep.  This was why he didn’t come home often - he had other responsibilities, and simply staying here in Horn Hill was more tempting than any of them. Every time he was here it became more difficult to leave.  

They were able to prepare for their departure quickly, as they were a small party.  It was just Sam, Gilly, Alleras, and a few of Sam’s guards and household. He brought a few servants that Gilly trusted because he knew they’d need them in King’s Landing.  The carriage drivers completed their party. The carriage was the one concession to comfort that Sam allowed because it made it easier to transport their belongings. It paid off - keeping the party small meant the preparations to leave were completed in a few days rather than the normal fortnite.  The last thing to be packed was the piece of black stone, and Sam tucked it under the seat, hidden away behind some bags and games they had to pass the time on the trip.  

They left the next morning, and as Horn Hill got smaller in the distance and they headed north towards where the road from their keep met the Rose Road near highgarden, a heavy, ominous, familiar feeling settled into Sam’s chest.  


End file.
